nevermind the end
by slexenskee
Summary: Meanwhile, Harry and Voldemort have a lot of sex. (this started out as serious non-con erotica and then somehow ended up with hardcore feels and a possible existential crisis. I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me.)


Dark themes: non-con/dub-con/childhood abuse/underage/sexual abuse/stockholm syndrome/unhealthy relationships/mpreg-ish

I can't list them all. But there's a lot. If any of the following are not something you want/should be reading, please don't.

Xx

AN: this started out as serious non-con porn and then somehow ended up with hardcore feels and a possible existential crisis. I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me.

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I feel like some second rate married couple, shifted to opposite sides of the bed and drowning in post-sex silence.

Not that I imagined Voldemort to talk. But neither did I imagine him to be the kind to sit in bed and look over papers. He's got some sort of long parchment that he seems uncannily interested in, so perhaps he won't take me again tonight. My arse already feels like it's been drilled by some sort of construction machine, and the sticky sensation of Voldemort's seed dripping out of me leaves me uncomfortable and unable to find sleep.

I drift off eventually.

He wakes me at precisely five thirty, giving me a nasty little electric jolt. He's throwing me out, just in time for school, and I stumble hastily to my feet only to fall once my weight is placed on them. The bottom half of my body is jelly and my arse has been thoroughly abused.

I catch the dark lord looking satisfied by his handiwork out of the corner of my eye, but ignore him. He can fuck off and die for all I care—I have the next twelve hours or so to live my life without him.

The satisfied look dies when he comes to this obvious conclusion as well, leaving something dark and angry as I portkey back to school.

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He doesn't make love, he fucks. And its ruthless. And never straight forward, no—he has to play with his food. Today, or tonight (I don't really know), my hands are tied above my head to the ceiling and I'm bent over against his desk.

He admires me for a moment, or perhaps just what he's done to me, and the paddle stills in his hand.

My arse is literally on fire. It's burning red from what I can see from my reflection, but it's easier to ignore if I don't look.

He's fucked me once already, long and hard, perhaps for more then an hour. It ends with him coming inside me—his favorite way to end things—leaving the head of his cock poised right outside my entrance, before pulling out so that I can feel his seed dripping out of me. Some days he leaves me like that, staring blankly at the far wall, hands tied, looking completely and totally fucked out, for anyone who walks in the door to see. Maybe it's my helplessness that gets him off the most. Honestly trying to figure out his motivations is really tiring; I'm pretty sure he doesn't have any.

He has two modes; a violently, murderous rage that he takes out through unforgiveables and dark curses, and a violently murderous rage that he takes out on me through… I don't even know. Kinky and occasionally bizarre sex.

Lucius walked in once.

The look of surprise on his face was masked the moment the Dark Lord intoned that he was allowed a go at me as well. I felt about as surprised as Malfoy looked at this.

Voldemort never shares me; ever. He'll let his followers touch me from time to time, but never anything close to this. So either Malfoy has done something very good, or I've done something very bad. Considering I haven't done much since I got here but lay here and make up shapes on the ceiling, I'm leaning towards the former.

Still, the Malfoy senior was all to eager to whip his prick out, and it was the first time I'd ever tasted the bitter release of Malfoy sperm. That's not to say that all sperm wasn't bitter and salty and disgusting, but just the fact that it was Malfoy made it all the worse.

After that the pureblood took the time to peruse me, first, giving my arse a go with the paddle, probably just to try and make me cry out, or to trigger another slow trickle of Tom's cum to come out of me. Voldemort cuts that off really quick though, when it becomes apparent that he's enjoying it far too much and I'm hating it far too little. Or maybe the sight of anyone else but him even spanking me is crossing the line. Who knows.

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He comes inside again and it fills me up to the brim, making my insides churn with the heat. He's never struck me as an exhibitionist so I know that he does this only for the gratification of seeing my humiliation afterwards. It's both pain and pleasure to see Bellatrix's contorted face. I know she wants to be the one getting screwed, regardless of if it's in front of everyone, but she's also satisfied with hearing my wails and pleads for stopping—even if they're half-hearted at best, downright droning at worst. Being engaged in the dark lord's sick fantasies is tough shit, okay. There's only so many times he can do this to me before it gets repetitive.

Not that I would dare to ever tell him this. I can think of like, five worse things he could pull then this; best to let him just assume I still find it horribly humiliating. I mean, it sucks, and it is humiliating, but I've—I don't know. Gotten used to it.

Bellatrix doesn't know it's me, of course; his little game would be up if his followers knew. My face is a distorted in a glamour vague enough to hide my more obvious features, masking it all with a generic, boyish look.

They're jeering and laughing and pointing towards me, but I'm exhausted and my head lolls on his shoulder. It's not bony. He must be wearing his Tom Riddle face, then. His cock, no longer impossibly enormous but still quite a huge girth, remains sheathed inside me, and occasionally he jerks it in just to hear me gasp in pain.

He knows I hate this position the most. He doesn't know why though and I refuse to tell him.

Maybe one day I'll confess that every humiliation he's done to me will never be as bad as what's already been done to me before; how this was Vernon's favorite position to describe to me, one he would explain in every intimate detail.

I'll let him keep his smugness for now, if only to relish in my own smugness when I finally reveal all this to him.

He must be feeling especially magnanimous today, because he sprawls me out on all fours, and gives his Death Eaters a go. Never full intercourse, because he'd never share his crowned jewel, but their fingers test me like merchandise. They don't seem to mind all the wetness, even as it pours out of me seemingly unendingly. There's got to be at least five or six at once and I squirm at the awful feeling—squirm right onto Lucius Malfoy's prick.

I wonder what Draco would think, to see his father shove his cock up my mouth. Appalled, most likely. Maybe a little smug. He's Voldemort's favorite, so of course he get's more leeway then the others. The dark lord doesn't seem to mind sharing this small service of mine, but he is not amused at all when Lucius pulls out and comes over my face. This is apparently an indulgence only meant for him.

I almost feel a little vindictive when I see the Malfoy senior scream on the floor under a crucio. Stupid Malfoy, tricks are for kids. No but seriously, there is a very fine line between the Dark Lord's obsession with humiliating me, and the Dark Lord's obsession with owning me. There's only so much he'll let his followers do to get a rise out of me, because he is a possessive fuck and the very idea of me doing this for anyone else but him is enough for him to start throwing out unforgiveables.

And they all know it too, jumping the fuck away from me as if their lives depended on it—which might actually not be all that much of an exaggeration, considering Voldemort's mercurial moods and his utterly all-consuming obsession of being the only one to have me.

They leave pretty fucking quick after that, but I'm not all that concerned by it. I feel so stretched that perhaps if Voldemort took me now, I wouldn't be in gut wrenching pain. I doubt it, though. Nothing could ever prepare me properly for that cock.

"It's almost morning." I croak out, though I know he's aware. He'll have to return me—the greatest displeasure of them all.

He also doesn't like me reminding him. There's a brewing, volcanic anger in his eyes as he drawls, "Then you'd better get to work, no?"

I look up at him sharply, shaking and covered in come—his come.

Get to—oh. Right.

I lick off his softened cock, cleaning it thoroughly until it's glistening with my saliva. My throat is dry and my mouth tastes like his semen—and just him, in general. Which is annoying, but will be solved in a minute or two when I cast a cleaning charm and brush my teeth, and rinse it out with mouth wash; or rubbing alcohol, which would get the job done and have the added bonus of maybe killing me.

I'd off myself just to come back as a ghost and see his explosively violent expression when he realizes I'm no longer around to torment.

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It's Saturday, a Hogsmeade weekend, and no one's going to be looking for me. He knows this, which is why I'm here in his office, bent over his desk. He's not even in the room, though. He doesn't need to be, because I'm sure he's aware that I'm already past sanity and moaning like a wonton whore. The worst part is knowing I'm not chained, knowing there's no physical reason why I couldn't just rip this snake out of me and leave the room. But I know the consequences of that aren't worth the relief it'll give now.

I learned very, very quickly that obedience is better than the alternative. I'd prefer it like this; he's very predictable that way. You do what he wants and he won't punish you. You do what he don't wants and he will. Of course, some times what he wants feels like punishment anyway.

It's a small, squirming piece of metal, and it pumps me with a purpose of making me incoherent in mindless pleasure. It does its job well.

There's so much sick humiliation in knowing I'm getting off on this, that this conjured metal snake is making my prick purple with need. He's put that nasty spell on me—so I won't come until he wants me to. So I'll beg him. Hell, even then he probably won't let me. He pulls this possessive, dominating shit almost every night, but I genuinely cannot remember the last time I got off on it.

He comes in eventually, maybe after an hour or two, but doesn't take me immediately. He stands in front of me and I raise my head, panting and flushed and squirming on the snake pushing it's way inside me. I know what he wants, and I deftly find the fastenings and pull out his dick, which lays heavy and hot in my hands. I crawl onto the desk to get better leverage, and he grips the back of my head and rams himself into my mouth. He's got a good four inches on Malfoy—hell, he may even give my wand a run for it's money—and the tip of his cock is in the back of my throat. My eyes burn, but I bob up and down, trying to get him off as quick as possible. I am still kind of in awe that this thing manages to fit it's way inside me every single time, and I'm not dead yet.

Finally my eyes really start to burn, and I feel sweet, sweet relief as tears start to spill in earnest. Voldemort seizes up the moment he sees them; it's only a matter of time until he can't take the sight of them without losing it. The hand on my head fists into my hair, driving me back down—yep. There it goes.

He pulls back into the cavern of my mouth and comes, and I milk his cock for as much as I'm worth. I've gotten used to the taste of his essence; I don't even feel the need to puke at the very taste of it. I realize with a sickening feeling that I might even be starting to like the taste of it. At the very least, it tastes like… nothing.

What I can't swallow ends up dripping out of my mouth, and I try to gasp around it for breath. He dispels the snake—finally, but walks around to position himself in its place.

It's an entire day's worth of fucking, and I'm ready to pass out by the end of it. My legs are immobile, my arse is on fire. He must be aware, because he's allowed me to lay there in god knows what kind of bodily fluids, finding sleep on his desk.

I don't really care; sleep is sleep, no matter where you get it.

Also, I take great vindictive pleasure in getting all of the sticky mess on every single one of his papers. I hope they were really important.

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I shouldn't have ever thought to myself that I could come to enjoy—or even tolerate anything about him.

Maybe he Legillimized me, or perhaps he's just intuitive, but today I have had nothing to eat but come. I hadn't had dinner that evening because I was already late, and by the middle of the morning I was ready to kill myself for that small grievance. I'd faced hunger before, but that doesn't mean I'd voluntarily want to do it again.

When I eventually forced myself to enter his study he pushed me to my knees under his desk, and I broke the sound barrier pulling his cock out and stuffing it into my mouth. The sooner this is over the better—I am fucking hungry, man. And even as I mechanically go through all the motions he likes, I find my thoughts drifting to a tuna sandwich. Of all the things. I don't even like tuna, but all Ron wanted to talk about today was provolone cheese and tuna fish. Maybe it like, subliminally caught it my mind.

Maybe he had planned it out, but his followers had come to report to him as I sucked him off beneath his desk. This was annoying, because he shoved me into the small space beneath it and I had to somehow work in the miniscule space. I switch back to more relevant thoughts: do I really want tuna? How about pumpkin pie or something?

For some incredible reason, I finally decide that what I'm really craving is toast. Just toast.

I felt him pulse against my mouth, and I opened wide for his first load, but he pulled me away and conjured a silver bowl. He released himself into it, and I stared in morbid fascination and a bit of disgust. How could so much end up inside me all the time?

As if the whole ordeal, and whatever about it he gets off on from it—the humiliation of it, I suppose, or maybe just my submissiveness—wasn't enough for him, he put the bowl on the ground and told me to lap it up like a good boy.

That always gets to me, and he fucking knows it, a grandiloquent look of satisfaction working it's way onto his face as I grimace. Little does he know it actually has nothing to do with him at all; Uncle Vernon used to call me that.

I knelt beside his desk and lapped it up dutifully, incredibly annoyed because it is far harder than I had assumed; come is deceptively difficult to get to do much of anything. Fuck. I get the hang of it eventually, but I had to go for another four rounds before he was actually satisfied. I got the impression that he wasn't actually going to feed me, no matter how well I got him off.

I also got the impression that he wasn't as satisfied with this whole kinky event as much as he usually is.

I don't know if he genuinely is deriving enjoyment from this or he's just getting frustrated that it's not satisfying him the way it used to, because he plays this little game all day. It's as if he's spelled me to be attuned only to him. I'm bent over his cock, licking the head in quick strokes to catch all the liquid that comes out.

He asks me if I like the taste of it. I nod, if only to get him to stop talking. He then asks where I would like it more, in my mouth or up my ass. It's a rhetorical question, I know from experience. And, because I am not an idiot, I say the right answer. "Up the ass."

And he grabs me by the hair—which hurts more than I could have ever imagined—and pulls my ass up into the air. Cheek pressed into the bedding, I have an awful view of the whole thing from the mirror.

He positions his impressive arousal at the rim of my entrance, and I shiver in fearful anticipation. There's the cold sensation of a lube charm and then he's rammed himself in to the hilt, pushing me forward with the force of it and I scramble to hold onto one of the posters. Well, at least there was a lube charm at all.

The worst part is I'm getting off on this, and Voldemort is pleased to note it. He grabs my attention starved prick and strokes it in time to his thrusts. I'm moaning aloud, screaming, actually, but it almost feels too good to stop.

This greatly annoys me. I hate being reminded that Voldemort is actually really fucking fantastic at sex, he just chooses not to be almost all the time.

My mind wanders to an alternate universe where he actually puts that super power to good use; honestly, he probably wouldn't even need to coerce me with a contract.

I can't take my eyes off the mirror, off of Voldemort's self-satisfied smirk and the way his massive cock plows into me. He presses in completely, and I grimace in pain, before I feel him pulse inside me, riding out his release. He's breathing heavily from the activity and his hands grip my hips like a vice, cock still pouring come into me. It feels like an eternity of him filling me with milky liquid, before finally he's done and pulls out.

As I lay there, panting and gasping and so turned on, he levitates that stupid silver bowl to the bed, placing it between my legs. Like clockwork, it all begins to drool out of me, pooling thickly in the bowl before my very eyes. I hate feeling the stickiness of his semen as much as I hate watching it. My hole is still clenching needily, as if calling his cock to fill me once more.

But Voldemort seems to have had all his fun for the day, and looks content to watch his essence pour slowly into the milk bowl. My knees quake and I almost fall into the bowl, but roll over just in time. My body is screaming for energy, and I'm close to passing out, but I manage to get myself onto all fours when he demands it of me, and lick it up when he tells me to.

He lets me leave eventually, and I'm once more in the four poster red and gold bed of my dorm in Gryffindor, feeling the cooling sweat and lingering semen still inside me. I twist my legs, as if it will banish all of his essence from inside me, but I know my belly's full of it and I've been stuffed both ways with it—it's certainly not going anywhere.

If I walk awkwardly that day, no one notices.

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"Does my little serpent want some milk?" It's Parseltongue. He enjoys speaking the snake language to me. I wonder if it might be because he's simply happy to have someone to speak it to and understand. Or perhaps its because he likes the way I shiver at the sound of it in my ear.

I will never understand his entirely absurd fascination with come—particularly of his own, particularly all over me. Actually, not even that; he prefers it inside, which makes even less sense. What does he like about it if he can't even see it? Isn't that the whole point of the fetish—to see it? Maybe it's the ownership of it all. But then, he already owns me. What more could he possibly have?

I make a noise of approval, and his cock impales me ruthlessly. Has it gotten bigger? Or maybe I'm just not prepared. He even prepped me a bit today, working his fingers inside me just to watch me writhe against him. He made me crawl with them still inside, all the way to the bathroom, to fetch an actual bottle of lube. I didn't even care because: lube. That he bothered to use it at all is rare. I was a mess by the time we'd made it back to his bedroom, and he didn't even bother with getting onto the bed.

"Say it." He hisses. It seems this answer doesn't meet his approval.

"Y—Yes…" I gasp, rocking into the wall. "I want your milk…" Milk. What even. This is more ridiculous than usual.

"Inside you?"

I nod fervently. "Inside me." I repeat dutifully.

An exultant expression crosses his face. So it's one of those vocal days.

He stops screwing me into the wall, and instead hoists me so I'm sitting on one of the end tables, brushing away all the items on it and sending them clattering to the floor. Obviously he doesn't care, for he grabs my ankles, spreads them wide and reams me wide open. The end table is small and it's barely the size of my ass, so I grip the legs behind me for dear life as he flies off the handle. The angle is perfection and he wastes no time plowing into me. In this position he seems to be two feet long and ten inches wide, and I feel like I've been stuffed with cock clear up my throat—this is absurd. He feels impossibly large all the time; I can barely take him as it is (in my defense, I don't think anyonecould) to the point that sometimes it doesn't even matter if he uses lube or not, I still bleed.

"How does it feel?" He grunts, powerfully pounding into me.

I can't keep my breath he's going so fast, but I choke the words out, "L—Like… ah-ah-ah… like your cock is…nnh—breaking me."

"Breaking you?" Though breathless, his voice doesn't waver like mine. "Oh, I wouldn't dare break you, my precious little horcrux…"

I hate that word. I hate being his little horcrux. I hate his parasitic soul latching to mine and I hate how I feel so complete every time he's sheathed full inside me, every time his come fills me.

"Who's are you, Potter?"

"I'm yours…" I gasp out.

"My what?"

"Your…" I grit my teeth. "Horcrux."

"Oh, a little more than that." He drawls. "I want you to want it. Beg me, Potter."

"I want you to fuck me until I can't walk—until I can't even see straight and all I want is your cock to fill me up again." Maybe a little bit repetitive—I think I used that exact sentence the last time—but honestly. There was an enormous cock up my ass. What does he expect?

"That's nice. A little sincerity though, if you please. I can still hear the 'fuck you' all the way through."

I don't know what to say. This angle is revolutionary, and he spreads me wide to get clearer access and suddenly I'm seeing stars.

"You're a filthy little slut. Say it."

"I'm a filthy little slut," I say, satisfied it should have enough conviction in it for Voldemort. Repetition was always easier.

"You're my little slut. Come on, Potter, don't make me do all the work, let me hear you."

Hell. I revised, "I'm your little slut. I'm your whore and I love to be under you and there's nothing I like better having your cock rammed into me, harder; I'm begging you to do it harder, I'm so fucking hot for you. . ."

Did he have to do this now?

I try to keep focus. This can be over in a matter of seconds if I could just please him enough. "I want you to—ah—fuck me until I beg you to stop and come inside me and then I want you to make me suck you off until I'm crying from it, and I want you to make me swallow all your—

I don't finish though, because he fucks into me so hard I lose my grip and near fall off the table. It's not a pleasant feeling, neither is him finishing inside me. He pulls out, the rest of the semen splattering all over my splayed form. Some catches on my mouth, and, holding his eyes, I lick it from my lips.

This seems to please him as he grabs one of my ankles and hoists it up into the air, stretching me for his perusing eyes. I think he gets off more from seeing his own essence leak out of me than anything—like he's left another mark on me. Not that he needs more, he's already got one, blinding and infamous on my forehead, and its not going anywhere. Hell, his fucking soul is stuck to my own like a parasitic, unfortunate younger cousin.

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I awoke this morning to him filling me once more to the point it was mildly uncomfortable. All the mess from last night's activities had pooled out of me and dried onto my legs, and I suppose my ass was in need of a fresh load. Instead of watching with satisfaction as his come worked its way inside me, I was uncomfortably plugged by a thick knob of plastic.

A butt plug.

Dammit.

It wasn't particularly large, definitely nothing in comparison to the impressive phallus of Voldemort, but it was enough to make me wince as he put it in.

With that, I was off to school, near limping from being fucked so thoroughly last night and all through the morning. Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face as he fucked into me. He appeared… not nearly as satisfied as usual. I even cried. This usually drives him absolutely wild. Whatever he was looking for I assumed he'd find it eventually—by the fourth time, at least—but I don't think he ever got whatever he wanted out of it. Hell, that's his problem.

He has his latest Death Eater, Theodore Nott, keeping an eye on me the whole day. It's the last class and I'm flushed and breathing hard. If Snape is aware of what the Dark Lord and I do during the hours of the night, he fortunately doesn't comment on it. He drones on through potions class as I grip the table so hard it might shake. I feel full and really fucking uncomfortable, and everything's bottled inside me by this butt plug. Every time I move I can clearly feel it inside me, and I feel sticky and wet.

By the time class is finally over I'm ready to collapse. You'd think that after all this sexual torment from Voldemort I'd be used to something as simple as a butt plug. You'd also think that after all this time, I'd realize he'd soaked it in an aphrodisiac before he shoved it inside me.

Theo pulls me into a classroom almost immediately afterwards, spelling the door locked and leering at me appreciatively.

"The Dark Lord asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you're—what did he say? Behaving, I recall," he starts, looking me up and down. "Says that I'll know what I'm looking for. Care to tell me what it is?"

I don't say anything. I don't trust myself to say anything. I'm burning up from the inside.

"C'mon Potter." He taunts. "You'll share your secrets with the Dark Lord but not me?"

"F—Fuck you." I hiss at him, unintentionally backing myself into a desk as he mounts forward on me.

"That sounds like a good idea." He smiles suggestively at me.

His hand barely touches my shoulder and it's like a jolt of pleasure to my cock. I jump. Theo notices, and slides his hand down my clothed arm.

"So sensitive…" He murmurs. "The Dark Lord asked me to bring you to him immediately, but I think I'll take my time with you."

I know what he's suggesting, but there's a different between knowing and taking action. I seem to be failing at the action part. Every touch burns my nerve endings and Theo rips through the buttons of my shirt, leaving it wide open, the red and gold tie limp around my neck.

"Well, well, Potter. What do we have here…" He rubs a finger up the bottom of my cock and I give a mangled cry. "Getting hard for me already?" Yes, actually. I'm impossibly rock hard.

"Such a cute little slut you are…" His eyes don't leave my penis, though he's aware enough to rope one of my legs to the leg of the desk. The other, he props onto the desk, giving him an ample view of my spread privates.

I try to close them, but he's already spotted it.

"What's this?"

His fingers grab for the handle of the butt plug and I'm sent screaming as it wiggles inside me, stirring Tom's hot sperm like my body is some sort of cauldron.

"Potter…" He drawls, twisting it, if only to watch my face contort in pleasure. "I never thought you'd be such a naughty, naughty whore…"

I've bit my lip so hard it's bleeding, but it doesn't stop me from giving a wrenched cry as he forcefully tugs it out of me in one go. Tom's cum goes spilling out of me and sopping on to the desk, pooling around my arse before it drips off the table. Nott stares in wonder at the amount of semen plugged inside me, one hand prying my legs open and the other going to the ring of muscle hiding my entrance. "A little cum slut, huh?" He smirks. "Do you like being stuffed with semen? Does it turn you on?"

I'm so slicked and stretched that I hardly feel his first finger enter me, nor the second, or the third. He's finger fucking me now and I can't even see straight, I wouldn't even fight him off even if I could—which I can't.

"You like that, eh, Potter?" He mutters darkly. "You like my fingers fucking you like that?"

"Ghh—hah… ah…" I can't even respond, it feels so good. If nothing else, I tried valiantly to get myself to move at the thought of Voldemort's reaction. Though this is entirely not my fault, that doesn't mean I won't get away without punishment. Even the thought of a round of Tom's punishment doesn't make me move.

"Yeah…" He says, breathlessly, eyes glued to my arse sucking his fingers in greedily. He stretches them wide, and more cum slickens his fingers and leaks out of me. "Yeah you do."

"You—" I move with the force of his hand. "Fucker…" He spreads me wide and pulls them out to the tip. I throw my head back and end up slamming it against a wall. "He's not g—going to…" He pushes them in again, and I contort at the sensation. "Like this..." I finish.

Nott tilts his head, not looking impressed with my broken words. "Oh?" Merlin. Is that four? "And who's he?" Nott snickers. "Your little boyfriend?"

Maybe he's thinking of Ron right now, or Seamus or Dean. But all I see is the Dark Lord's furious face at the very thought of being considered something even remotely like a boyfriend. No. He's the other half of my soul. My jailer.

"No." I smirk at him, though it's small and pained. "The dark lord."

Nott's eyes widen. His left arm, whose fingers happen to be screwing me, burns with a recognition that makes him go pale. His right hand's grip on my splayed leg loosens until I can freely move it.

Theo wrenches his fingers out of me and I choke. More liquis splatters out. Holy hell, Tom really filled me. Nott hastily wipes his come slick fingers on his robe before he apparates, looking rightfully terrified. I feel the portkey around my neck burn as I'm summoned as well.

I'm not going to lie, I feel a pretty immense sense of retribution as the Dark Lord back hands the blonde to the floor, throwing an unforgivable at him as he stalks forward, watching him scream in pain. This does not satisfy him at all; a violent, livid fury overtakes his features as he punishes his follower into insanity. For once, Tom doesn't blame me, probably aware that the potion he gave me was made specifically to have me helpless to any sexual encounter. The Dark Lord has his fun with him, and for a moment I'm actually a little thankful our fun is the more pleasurable kind. I'd much rather be fucked than tortured into the strewn body that is Theodore Nott.

I've crawled myself to the wall, knees to my chest and shaking, watching with unseeing eyes as Nott looks ready to meet his death.

It goes on for a little longer, and I'm sure Nott's been accumulatively under the cruciatus for more than ten minutes, and he's incoherent on the floor, a bloody heap that may or may not be dead, rolled into a ball. Voldemort gives him a dismissive glance, looking as if even this has not even quelled an ounce of his rage, before moving to me.

I'm looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. Why am I fearful? We've done this song and dance a little too long for me to be scared. It's that look in his eyes, I guess. It's murderous. Will he do the same to me?

He doesn't.

Instead, he pulls me up and wrenches my legs apart and takes me there. Miraculously it doesn't hurt—I've been stuffed clean with that butt plug for so long that for once, it actually feels a bit good. Maybe Voldemort's just gotten good at fucking me, or maybe I'm turning into a sick bastard, but either way I'm enjoying it, moaning like a Knockturn Alley whore and gripping my legs around his waist. I hate this position; hoisted up by him with a perfect view of his face. The worst part is he's watching me with calculating eyes, most likely feeling satisfied at my flushed, honest face. I love this. He knows it.

There is something very dangerous to his expression—infinitely more than usual, but I don't know what it is.

"You're mine." He whispers, possessively. "You're mine and no one can take you from me—

I knew this already, but I only nod helplessly. Anything to feel that thick cock screw me harder. For once in my life I appreciate his large girth, having been stretched the whole day for its lovely accommodation.

He comes inside me, replacing whatever Nott spilt out and then some, and I shiver in delight at the sensation. Merlin I'm messed up. I feel completely claimed by him, all the love bites he's marked on my neck and all the seed released inside me; even my scar was given to me by him, the unnatural Avada Kedavra green to my eyes.

He doesn't let me down until he's apparated us back to his chambers, and even then he holds me up as he walks into his bedroom, before throwing me onto the bed.

Even still, the look in his eyes remains. It almost looks something like fear—I scoff, inwardly. That's impossible. The dark lord fears nothing.

.

.

.

Fifth year ends, much to my complete and utter despair.

That said, my despair isn't any more or less than the usual horror I feel at the advent of summer; the Durselys, Lord Voldemort—all of these are just synonymous ways of saying three months of unending hell.

Maybe he's come to some sort of possessive decision about me, but his Death Eaters are no longer allowed to touch me. They can watch, of course, as he screws me endlessly in his lap, reaming me open and spreading my legs wide for his followers to have an appreciative view. I'm aware I'm crying, and my face is red with humiliation, and if anything it only turns the Dark Lord on more. There is nothing he loves more in this life than my continued embarrassment and tears. Both become harder and harder to conjure the more he attempts to wrangle them out; eventually I'm going to stop caring about it at all, and then what's he supposed to do?

We've learnt of the prophecy—that doesn't stop him from fucking me every night. In fact, I daresay he's even pleased by this. That whole 'marked by the Dark Lord' thing must really give him some sort of kick. Yes, how very fucking surprising. Another confirmation of his ownership over me, giving him pleasure. The whole 'neither can live while the other survives' part gives him some pause, but after that he dismisses it—coming to some conclusion, I'm assuming.

Well, he won't kill me. I'm his horcrux; that's incredibly counterintuitive. On the other hand, I can't kill him. First of all that's practically impossible and second he signed that contract—if I attempt and fail I don't care what happens to me, it's the rest of the world I'm worried about.

This time when he finishes inside me, he lets me lay their placidly, still impaled on his long, thick cock but no longer bouncing by the forth of his thrusts. I'm not led on all fours to let the death eaters have their go. In fact, Lucius Malfoy doesn't even get a turn at my mouth. He seems to have fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord, and has herded himself into a far corner, away from the crowd that has gathered to watch their lord have his ruthless fuck of the day.

The amassed followers disappear, but I know that's only the first round. There's more of them coming, and I'm sure Voldemort's going to want to show me off to them as well.

He pulls himself out of me slowly, taking enjoyment as I writhe in his lap at the sticky feeling of cum drooling out of me and the sliding of his penis as it leaves me. It must be some sort of stamina potion, It must be, because it's impossible for a man to grow hard after mere seconds from climax. Potion, hell, probably a ritual. There's no way he could take that many of them every single time.

He's arranged his clothes once more, but I'm still sweaty and naked in his lap, my arse covered and leaking and wet and messy and—ugh. This sucks.

The first order of business is the report, in which each Death Eater kneels before his feet and tells him what he wants to hear. If it isn't, they're in for a round of torture. I've noticed the suggestive leers they have of my body, though they'd never say it aloud or act on their desires. They've learnt the lesson from Nott. Once it's all done, as if it's simply an order of business, Voldemort has me undo his pants, springing his endowed erection free.

They're all watching closely now, almost excitedly, and I'm so disturbed I make the awful choice of looking at their faces.

They can't see mine, but I can see theirs.

Voldemort pries my limp legs open, giving his followers ample view of my gaping, literally screwed asshole, holding me up like that until I can feel the barest tip of his head against my winking entrance.

Its so good its torture. The shameful spreading and the humiliation of realizing that Snape was the last to report, and therefore the one closest. I want to close my legs and melt into the ground, but I can't. All I can do is shiver in anticipation, waiting for Voldemort to impale me onto his impressive phallus.

The smooth head wrenches me open effortlessly as Voldemort drops me on his cock, and it hurts from the speed and girth. He's let go of my legs so I know he's not going to move me, and I'll have to do it myself. I grip his knees and lean forward, fucking myself on his dick. It's so big I can feel it in my stomach in this position, my spine is a bundle of pain and his cock seems to impale me right into my throat. If the length wasn't already awful, it's the thickness. The burning stretch never stops; I never seem to get fully accustomed to his cock. Every time I feel like I am I somehow end up back to my virgin self. Voldemort loves it, I know. But I can tell you, I don't.

I know when he's about to climax, because he grips my hips and begins to move me up and down on his cock himself, no longer content with the broken, slow rhythm I've set for myself. His balls slap against my ass and tighten, and the feeling of all that sperm inside me snaps my eyes open.

My eyes accidentally meet Snape's as Voldemort rides out his release, and I can't seem to close them.

I can only pray that he never manages to find out its me.

The dark lord pulls out of me eventually, crooning into my ear and petting my hair like a very well-behaved pet that just performed a nice trick for him. I don't even bother getting mad about it—the petting part feels kind of nice, actually. The taunting I ignore entirely.

That's the thing that Lord Voldemort simply hasn't gotten yet, I guess. He clearly assumes he's the first person to ever make my life a violent living hell—he is very much so wrong. I have decades of experience in that regard; fourteen goddamn years of it. Until fourth year I endured the mistreatment, abuse, and occasionally even trauma-inducing violence of my family, after which I experienced pretty much the same thing, but just by him instead. And unlike Uncle Vernon, he's actually made good on his promise to fuck me until I cried.

But all this just means I've perfected the art of compartmentalizing myself and shutting everything else off. That might actually be the only beneficial thing Snape ever did for me when he tried to teach me Occlumency—I definitely didn't learn Occlumency, but I did learn how to train my mind to ignore anything I don't want to see. Let him think I'm broken though; it's far easier this way.

.

.

.

The long, infinite summer months continue, dragging their feet to autumn as if they have a personal vendetta against me.

Every day is much of the same—well, the days when he's in the Manor, at any rate.

I think we've moved, but I can't be sure. His rooms look somewhat different than before; the furniture has all been changed, aside from some few key pieces I'm assuming hold some kind of value to him. Either that or he just felt in the mood for redecorating.

But to be honest, there are far more days he's gone than days he's at the Manor.

And even then, on the days I do see him, it is very briefly in the evening. This all constitutes as a few shitty hours a week and in the grand scheme of things, it could be a lot worse. At the Dursley's it was universal hell at every second of every day. I couldn't escape it, even at night. There was Petunia yelling at me in the mornings, demanding things of me through the day, wielding her spatula as a weapon of mass destruction; Dudley during the day, always finding new but not particularly inventive ways to hurt me; and Vernon at night, with beatings and belts, but occasionally he would come in during the darkness and demand things from me. Take off your shit, he'd say. Lie on your stomach. Spread your legs.

He never actually touched me, though he would say any magnitude of the lewd things he would do to me. Progressively more sexual as I grew older—but definitely still there when I was younger. Starting since… well actually I don't even remember when.

Even though when you compare them side by side—what Vernon did then and what the dark lord does now—one seems much worse than the other, it's honestly Vernon that I fear more. Who knows why; he certainly doesn't have the capacity to completely ruin me the way Voldemort does. Maybe it's just because I've feared him longer; that I've feared him since I was a child, defenseless and alone.

I don't mention any of this to anyone. Most certainly not Voldemort.

It's not like we have much in the way of conversations.

Anyway, Voldemort comes and goes; does what he likes with me, tortures innocents with his followers, terrorizes the world at large. Now that his presence has been revealed I'm sure the world outside is changing; who knows what will await me when I return to school.

.

.

.

Voldemort returns one evening in a rage that is far more potent than usual.

Most of his ire is vented with rounds of unforgiveables at his followers, who I'm assuming messed something up or angerd him somehow. But this does not mean that I come out of his rage unscathed.

It's not any worse or better than it normally is.

He bends me over his desk and attempts to release his anger with a paddle to my arse. This doesn't end up satisfying him in the slightest. He takes me at least three times in his office, running his fingers through the mess and making me lick them clean. This doesn't seem to have its usual effect, either—that is rather strange, because there is very little that the dark lord enjoys more than seeing me covered in his essence, licking it up off his fingers. He takes me a few more times in the bed, but this works as an outlet for his rage as well as the rest of it did, which is to say, not at all.

He must realize this because he leaves me there, stalking out of the room to most likely continue to torture his followers. Good riddance.

I end up falling asleep out of pure exhaustion while he's gone. A sleep far deeper than what I normally achieve when he's around, because he hasn't pulled me awake to satisfy him in some sexual fashion, and he's not around or to be a constant, ominous presence in the bed that makes me unable to truly find sleep.

I'm awoken violently by a sharp pain in my shoulder.

I startle awake; the dark lord hovers above me, looking irritated in the early-morning gloom. I look around wildly—is it five am already? No, it can't be. It's not nearly light enough outside. I don't know what I was dreaming about, but I feel disoriented and out of sorts.

"Stop your incessant yelling," he demands, grasping my chin in a painful grip,"Or I'll make you sleep on the floor."

I stay silent, blinking up at him, trying to make sense of my thoughts and the remains of my dreams.

"And stop that thrashing or I'll chain you to the bedpost." He adds, releasing me violently.

I'm still delirious, sleep-deprived, and, apparently, have been crying hysterically because I find my cheeks are wet and ruddy. I don't know what the hell is happening, and it's dark enough and his voice is angry enough to confuse me until I don't really remember where I am, or who he is.

"I'm sorry," I croak out, breath hitching, looking around wildly. I feel lost in a vertigo and in the blackness I'm suddenly hit with a strong impression of Dudley's spare room, of Vernon over top of me, whispering in my ear. "I'm sorry Uncle Vernon, I won't do it again, please don't do this to me. Please, I promise—"

I register vaguely that I'm babbling mindlessly. But I am seized by a sudden and uncontrollable fear.

Above me Voldemort frowns. "Potter."

I shake myself into reality, prying away from the terror that remains coiled in my stomach.

Oh, it's Voldemort. I blink. Hell, it's Voldemort.

"Oh. Sorry," I say, again, voice cracking as I wipe at my eyes. And then, shaking my head. "I didn't mean to wake you. It won't happen again."

I'm impressed he hasn't found some creative spell to punish me with. I don't know how long I sit there trying to stop my crying, wiping furtively at my eyes. It was just a fucking dream, I remind myself. And whatever it was probably didn't even hold a candle to the shit Voldemort pulls on you now. This is invariably true, but doesn't seem to calm me down at all.

I look up then, noticing Voldemort is still staring down at me.

He isn't commanding me to do anything though, so i ignore him, throwing an arm over my face like it will stop the undending tide of tears. It doesn't; they just stream down my face silently.

I want to yell at him. What do you want from me? He's probably just angry that he wasn't the one to cause my pain this time.

I feel a small drop of vindication at that. He can do a lot of terrible things to me, but against all reason—he's not what brings nightmares out from the recesses of my mind.

.

.

.

Seeing as though his last excursion went awry, thanks to one Theodore Nott, the Dark Lord begins his experiment once more the following morning.

I don't know how much semen he's pumped in to me but it's about four times more than usual, as he's fucked me four times without pulling out. He wastes no time letting the spillage release out of my more-than-full arse, and plugs me up quick with a butt plug. I struggle, but then it's useless. It gives me this awful bloated feeling, and all I can do is lay there and take it.

The worst part is thinking that I've actually gotten used to this, or worse, liking the feeling of being so full with it.

That silver bowl makes an encore appearance in the evening when I return, as he releases his essence into it, deriving satisfaction from watching me kneel down to lap it up. It tastes bitter and is quite possibly the most disturbing texture to exist, and sometimes it slides right off my tongue and I have to lap furiously to get it to stay.

Really though, this come fetish thing might actually be starting to get out of hand. Well, not that it wasn't already, but I genuinely am running out of ideas that could further his obsession. And if I'm running out, that probably means he already has.

Before he has to return me, he makes me crawl on top of his desk, conjured bowl between my legs. It's with great pleasure that he rips out the butt plug, and all the cum from this morning erupts out of me. I hate to love this slickened feeling, my passage still covered in his semen and my legs splattered with it. It doesn't all drip into the bowl, some of it trickles down my leg sand dries there as I bend down to lick it all up, bent on his desk and giving a perfect view of my pink, puckered hole.

As I lap up my dinner he coaxes out the rest of his come with his fingers, splaying my abused entrance apart, and when I'm done, makes me lap all that too, sucking each and every finger clean. It's a messy way to eat and a lot of the mess has drooled out of my mouth and down the front of my shirt. But, I mean, I'm impressed I even have a shirt on at all.

I see it when the clock announces it's time for my departure—not from the clock but from his face. He looks furious as usual, but I don't bother to wait, grasping the necklace hanging lopsided around my collarbone.

He rips the necklace off of me before I can even think of using it. I watch in shock as it soars through the air and clatters onto the floor.

It's an event that he hates above all else, but he's never before gotten in the way of it.

He pushes me back down onto my back, my eyes wide and alarmed. I don't know why I'm so scared; what could he do to me that he hasn't done already? For the record, I just had to indulge his rampant comeplay fantasies for the past couple hours—I don't think it gets much worse than that. But maybe it's because of the livid rage in his eyes, or the way his hands grip my hips until I feel like he might crush the bone. I can't understand why he's so angry; I haven't done a single thing to piss him off, and neither has anyone else. He looked… satisfied and smug the entire day. What changed?

It's past five. I can see it with my own eyes when the magic of that contract begins to take effect. It looks… incredibly painful, but he won't let go of me.

The air around us seems to sizzle with burning magic. I feel as if I could smell it in the air—all the magic leaving him as he fights the contract. But he knows as well as I do what the consequence is of breaking it; so why isn't he letting me go?

"Let me go," I whisper; the first thing I've said of my own volition in days—weeks, maybe even months. Hell, it might be the first thing I've said all year.

I can't remember a time I actually opened my mouth and said something voluntarily.

He must realize it too, because he stares down at me intensely. He watches me with dark, volcanic eyes; completely unreadable. I feel in pain just by watching him.

My expressionless mask breaks as my eyes dart back and forth from his face to the pendant on the floor. The grip on my hips is becoming unbearable; I can feel him shaking through it.

I push away from him.

"Let me go!"

He stumbles back, breathing heavily. The pendant comes shooting in the air and almost hits me in the face. I catch it just in time and send a terrified glance his way, just before I'm taken back. I know why I'm scared; that rage can't mean anything good.

.

.

.

Things really come to a head after that.

The dark lord flies into a rage even I don't know how to handle. At the very least, it appears the death eaters are less enthused than usual, as if out of solidarity with me. Because they are definitly facing the full brunt of it as much as I am. I'm in his lap (again) staring down at the surprisingly terrified faces of his followers (again), in complete pain from a brutal and ruthless fuck (again).

It's been worse than usual, but only because he seems to have no patience to indulge in his usual games.

He crucio's them at will, with absolutely no rhyme or reason. Honestly the crucio is probably the lesser of all the evils today; he's also cast an entrails ripping curse, a blood boiling curse, and some strange thing that made someone bleed out from every orfice. Somone else was torn limb from limb. Hell, the cruel and merciless sex is probaly the real lesser of all the evils.

He is savage and terrible, but he's always savage and terrible.

And there's not much else he can do to me that he hasn't already. He doesn't throw any unforgiveables or painful curses my way, hasn't, actually, since the first summer of hell I had to endure. He'd prefer to see me in tears and in pain through sexual means—through submission and domination, rather than physical pain. I don't actually know which is worse on some days.

He chains me to the bed for the whole weekend, as if he couldn't have kept me there just by telling me not to leave. Whatever. It's probably the idea of me collared to the bedpost rather than the ordering me not to move from the bed that he's going for. And when he pulls my legs apart and fucks me into the headboard, it's—well, it's not great, but not nearly as bad as I exected.

"You're mine," he whispers into my ear, possessive and incensed.

I nod frantically.

"Say it," he demands, with such a brutal thrust I have to catch myself on the headboard before I crash head first into it.

"I'm yours," I reply, diligent.

"You're mine," he repeats, growling, bringing a hand to my hair, grabbing it and snapping my head back. I wince. Again with the hair. "You'remine, Harry Potter. You can't escape me—I own you, do you understand? Everything about you belongs to me."

Yes, that would be the obvious conclusion after you signed a contract of ownership of me.

"Yes," I agree, startled and gasping. "I'm yours—you own me."

"All of you."

"All of me." I repeat.

This doesn't seem to be mollifying him even in the slightest. "Every fucking inch of you," he murmurs, lips so close to my ear I can feel them moving against it, still holding my hair in a punishing grip.

"Yes, yes," I babble, insensibly. "You own me, every part of me, every inch of me, I'm yours—

At some point between my mindless repetition and his exponentially increasing anger and eventual climax, I get the impression he's not really trying to convince me of this. But why would he need to convince himself? How is it not utterly obvious? How has he not already staked his claim on me—how is he not satisfied with his utter domination of me? I don't even think it's possible to own a person more than he owns me—both body and soul. Literally, in both cases.

He unchains me eventually, but he doesn't tell me to leave the bed so I don't. I lay there complacently as he moves me around as he likes, fixing my gaze on the ceiling. I like playing pretend tetris with the tiles; it actually holds my attention quite well, even though I'm not actually a five year old child.

He never cares what I do as long as I'm doing what he wants, but my apathy angers him for some reason. He wrenches my attention away from my fake game (that I was winning!) with a punishing grip on my chin. I turn to him, giving him my best, submissive dead-fish eye look. He stares down at me, before shoving me away with a growl.

He's having more issues than usual today, but I mentally shrug it off. That's not my problem.

Still, the broken, lifeless, and submissive gaze is one of his favorite things to get off on—mine too, actually. I mean, not the getting off part, but I do like it too. It's a patently easy expression to master and has the added bonus of being completely unreadable. He'll never be able to tell what kind of awful or hilarious shit I'm thinking about him from past the empty, passive expression that's practically second nature on my face.

He loves the idea that he's broken Harry Potter—that his most hated adversary is now just a simple doll he can use to do what he likes to.

I'm not sure why it's not working today.

He returns some time later, holding a tall glass vial.

He looms above me, where I'm lying in the same position he left me in, staring sightlessly at the far window. Not contemplting escape or anything, just fixing a dead look at the light playing against the curtains. Because I am apparently a five year old child and pretty shiny things can completel captivate all of my attention. My eyes drift upwards when he hovers above me still, a contemplative but equally angered look on his face.

Did someone piss him off again, or is this just residual pissiness from the rest of the day?

Either way I take it from him without complaint, pop the cork and down it. Who the hell knows what it was—it's better to just suck it up and drink it rather than attempt to fight him. Actually, I'm pretty sure nothing he can do to me is worth intentionally incurring his wrath.

It tastes funny, but then I hadn't expected it to taste like pumpkin juice or anything.

I give it back to him, blankly returning to gaze at the window. From this angle, it could almost be a jellyfish. Or maybe a humpback whale.

He's still looking down at me. Angrily.

Does he want me to cry? I'm not sure what else he could want from me. Whatever it is, he gives up eventually, spinning around and leaving the room with an audible bang of the doors.

.

.

.

A pregnancy potion.

It was a fucking pregnancy potion.

I knew it, too. From the moment my stomach started to feel horrible. There's only a few potions that leave the subject with a burning sensation in the stomach, starting with a searing pain that renders them unconscious for the majority of the transformation.

From the outside, I don't look any different.

From the inside…

Tom presses me against the wall, and I'm fighting furiously, hysterically, knowing full well what the consequences of his little comeplay kink will do to me now. Finally he gets irritated with my incessant struggling and chains my arms above my head, pressing my chest to the wall and grabbing my hips.

It's so awful, now. A thousand times worse as he slides his rigid cock between my cheeks, slowly, taking his precious time.

I'm crying, sobbing, actually, begging him to stop but I know he won't, and each brush of the head of his cock against my entrance has me shooting up in fear.

The head of his dick parts me open, and I'm shouting now, loud enough that the dungeon I'm in is ringing with my voice. He holds me there on the tip of his cock for some time, convulsing on it as if to push it out. He doesn't pull out, though. In fact, he plunges right in, and it hurtswhen he hits something all the way inside me. I know it's the womb. He might've broken right into it—I don't know. It sure felt like it.

He pulls out all the way again, until I'm left clenching helplessly at the head of his cock, and then he surges in ruthlessly, sheathing himself to the hilt. It goes on like this for some time, me, shaking, sobbing, screaming. Him in a wild rhythm that actually has me slamming into the wall. And then I feel it; all his seed released deep inside me. And I know, know he's taken a fertility potion because it's so much, burning hot as it drips down my legs, splattering to the floor.

The Dark Lord gives a grunt as he pulls himself out of me with a squelch and a pop, and I cringe at the sound, which is almost worse than the liquid I can feel leaking out of me.

He doesn't unchain my arms, but he does loosen them so I can fall pitifully to the floor, curled up against the wall in hysterics.

He leaves me there in a mess of bodily fluids, my knees shaking from the force of being shut so tightly, as if it will dispel all the semen from inside me.

.

.

.

He returns two days later, and I'm still there, and I can still feel it in me, slick and coating my insides, though most of the pool of it has dried up and is a flaky substance on the stone tiles.

He's furious as the pregnancy spell comes out negative. So furious, in fact, he throws me to the ground, lifts my ass up and takes me dry, four times in a row.

Now there's a fresh load of come, mingled with more of my blood from such a violent taking, and Voldemort is panting furiously as he stands up from behind me, murderous, almost. But a round of crucio wouldn't serve his purpose now. Instead, he only watches me as I pant limply into the cold floor.

The furious expression doesn't leave him as he leaves me there, slamming the door behind him.

.

.

.

This is the third time, and still no baby.

Voldemort must have realized he's done something wrong, for he's unchained me, taken me out of the dungeon, and put me to bed. It's a fantastic sensation to be clean once more, though I feel like I'll never be clean on the inside.

He's rubbing his hands slowly all over me, and I feel a little dizzy, but contented, slow, and sleepy. Drowsy, in a way that would usually concern me but doesn't right now. "Harry," He whispers, darkly loving. "Harry…"

"Hmm?" I reply, opening my eyes slowly. His hands massage my shoulders, my back, peppering kisses—kisses!—down my spine like an impromptu lover.

It's a game, I remind myself. This is some sort of game.

At the thought, my eyes, which had fallen shut again, snap open. The euphoria of the bath, the massage, and all the pampering of this morning washes out of me, and I narrow my gaze at him. "What?" I ask, guarded.

He leans up and kisses me solidly on the mouth, which surprises me more, as for as long as I've been here he's never kissed me once—and I feel two slicked fingers enter into me, slow and warm.

He's preparing me? I think, blindsided. He never bothers with that.

His lips are opening mine, tongue sweeping against my own as his hands give me pleasure—one teasing my opening, the other coaxing my cock into hardness. I break away from the kiss with an involuntary moan. "What are you—

"Shh, Harry…" He whispers again, and I'm annoyed with my name but a little too pleasured to care about it. It's never felt so good… so natural. He scissors his fingers and I arch my back, light pads skittering across that spot inside that usually he only ignores completely.

"Ahh…" Breathless moans are coming out involuntarily, but I'm incorrigibly turned on and feel hot, almost sickly hot, panting and clenching at the sheets.

"Do you like that, Harry?" He says, adding three fingers. I arch my back, gritting my teeth.

"I…"

"Do you want to feel my cock instead?" He croons into my ear. "Do you want to feel it inside? I promise, I'll make it feel good."

A part of me wants him to make good on his promise, to feel him inside—his thick, glorious cock—that painfully good burning and the feel of it molding into me, stretching me, filling me—

"Tell me," he commands.

"Yeah." I say, before I can stop myself, hands coming up to clutch at his biceps. "Yeah, I want it."

He smirks, or maybe smiles, it looks a little malicious but not as much as usual, and his fingers slowly make their way out of me, and I'm left aching for something more, something bigger, to fill their place.

He still has one hand pumping my shaft, the other slickening himself up with lube. Lube. I can't remember the last time he used that.

I close my eyes, waiting for the quick and ruthless breech, holding my breath and bearing down for it; when it doesn't come. Instead there's a slow stretch as his turgid, hot length buries itself between my legs, my body sucking him in inch by inch in the most brutally slow pace I've ever had. But its wondrous. I can't even explain how good it feels, which is awful, really, I hate to enjoy it, but he's a man who certainly knows how to use his dick, that's for sure.

"Oh—" I gasp, as he sheaths himself completely. I feel a little helpless, stuffed with this enormous cock and pawing weakly at his shoulders, but it almost feels too good. "Tom…."

I've never said his name before, either. Perhaps I've called him Voldemort once or twice, but not Tom, never Tom, and the experience calls forth an exultant expression to his face, which peers down at me curiously, genuinely.

"Tell me what you want, Harry." He whispers to me, his face so close I can see the green in his red eyes, and he can probably see the red in mine.

Oh god, there really was no explaining it, was there? I hated him with my very being, hated everything about him. He's raped me, multiple times—enjoying them doesn't mean it's not rape—and I abhor his very existence and yet I can't get enough of him. He is me, in a way, and I can't help but feel this way.

"I want you…" It comes out, spilling. I choke as the words stir his hips into movement. But it's a slow, tempting one. "I want you to take me, I want to feel you in me… I want you to," I swallow dryly, the feel of his cock inside me getting me to say things I'd never admit even to myself. "Come inside me, fill me up until I can't take anymore, and I'm so full of it you're all I can taste—

My embarrassing monologue is cut off by a low, guttural moan, and I can tell my dirty impromptu confessions are getting to him as he drops his head onto his chest and an expression I've never seen before filters over his face. It's a mix of desire, lust, and impatience… and something else.

"You really do like it, don't you Harry?" He says, a little breathlessly. "You like my cock screwing you like this—

His hips brutally ram into me quickly, and I gasp at the head of his cock spearing inside me. "And you like it when I claim you, when I fill you with my seed, don't you?"

I nod helplessly, gripping his shoulders and practically impaling myself onto it. "Yeah," I say, breathlessly. "Yeah I do."

His pace has sped up, shaking the bed and taking me with it. "And you want it now?" He pants. "You want me to come inside you?"

"Yes!" I shriek, and his hands grab my hips and punishingly slam me onto him. "I want it!"

He sheathes himself completely inside me, buried to the hilt and I feel the burning hot sperm inside, filling my stomach with his essence—and maybe even more. I don't want to think about why he's being such a gallivanting lover right now, about the pregnancy potion, and what this could possibly do to me. All I want to feel is my arse slicked inside with Tom, clenching against his cock and milking it for every last drop.

"Ahh…" I collapse, satiated and full. One hand strays to my stomach, where I feel bloated, almost. He's always been somewhat of an eight-roper, and with a fertility potion its almost unbearable.

He pulls out, but I still feel full, and his cock is still slightly spurting. There's a string of cum that's coming from the head of his cock and connecting to my entrance, and he stares at it, almost hungrily. We share a look, one I don't think I'll ever truly want to decipher, before he rolls onto his side next to me, looking entirely burned out. Which is a first, because usually he's up for at least four rounds.

But I'm just as burned out, and when I close my eyes I'm out like a light.

.

.

.

I wake up. Naturally. No jolt to shove me out of bed, no shaking, nothing. It already puts me at unease.

I realize I'm pressed against something burning like a furnace. I look down to see Voldemort's large hand pressing against my stomach. He's spooning me. He never does that—he never cuddles. Just saying that word and thinking of him is bizarre.

I begin to recall last night with a white hot fury. Love potions were most definitely involved, what the hell. I was dosed up like no one's business—high as a fucking kite. I would have never done any of that voluntarily if I wasn't. I feel like I can still taste it, something way too sickly sweet on my tongue.

He stirs, and the possessive hand on my stomach grips me slightly, for a moment, before it relaxes again.

I kind of feel like drifting off again, but I can feel his heavy arousal against me, spreading my cheeks as he rolls his hips, brushing against my thoroughly abused entrance with every pass. It feels—okay, I guess. Nothing to write home about. Definitely nothing like last night, when I was so stoned I couldn't even see straight.

And then after he's done that long enough for me to get used to it, he eases himself inside. It's a slow slide, but he doesn't stop until he's fully inside me and I hiss in pain at the sudden intrusion. He feels bigger than usual in this position.

It's not over fast enough; whatever I felt last night is long gone, leaving me hollow and cold. It's fine and all, except everything is pointless and nothing matters and I'm really fucking tired.

When he's done he stays inside me, wrapping two strong, possessive arms around me and pulling me back to him. I don't even struggle. Sleep sounds amazing right now, I could care less how I get it.

.

.

.

I wake up again and am unceremoniously thrown off the bed. He throws a pregnancy spell at me, and it comes back blue.

Fourth time, still no dice.

.

.

.

Hermione is actually the one who figures out why I'm not getting pregnant—unintentionally, anyway. She was looking up potions because she is a nerd and stumbled upon the male pregnancy potion. As a muggleborn this thoroughly piqued her curiosity so she avidly began to research it.

Turns out, there's one crucial ingredient that Voldemort is missing: I have to want to be pregnant.

I scowl.

And he knows it, too. That's where all the slow and gentle came from. But of course; he'd never do that without some sort of scheme behind it. But he's a fool for thinking that faking love would do the trick. I suppose it was inevitable though; Voldemort doesn't know a single thing about love, and never will.

I console myself with this thought.

All this means that there's no way in hell I'm getting pregnant, not matter how hard he tries or whatever plots he comes up with. I have to want it. I have to genuinely want it. No forcing my hand, or using my friends as bait or trying to trick me into it.

Because one thing is for sure—I would never love Voldemort.

So he's shit out of luck.

I don't tell him that I know this, of course.

He's bent me over the dining room table and he takes all his frustrations out on me, as if that would help him at all with his new goal. It hurts, of course it does, and I don't get off because I never get off when we have sex, and for some reason he gets even more mad about that. He calms down after he's done, and I'm lying face down on the table, resting my forehead against the cool wood and refusing to look anywhere else. And then, to my unending disbelief, he gets me off. With his hand. As in the dark lord actually deigned to give someone a hand job. He took the opportunity to also litter my neck with dozens of hickeys, as if he doesn't have enough marks on me already.

I'll admit it was… weirdly considerate of him, but being nice is not nearly enough.

He probably knows this, because he stares at me for an uncomfortably long amount of time, before he promptly leaves me there like that, and walks out of the room.

.

.

.

Suffice to say that attempt worked about as well as the others. I am still glowing blue.

He doesn't take me like that again.

It's as if all the brutal and horrible and painful sex was all just a dream. He doesn't humiliate me in front of his death eaters, or humiliate me when we're alone. No whipping, no chains. No raging, out of control cum fetish. Obviously he finishes inside me every time, but I'm not licking it out of a bowl, or his fingers, or even swallowing it out of his cock. He hasn't made me give him a blowjob in weeks. I suppose that would sort of defeat the purpose of trying to get me pregnant. I could get used to his whole baby thing, I think.

Because he's never going to get that baby—but I'm definitely going to enjoy seeing him try.

When we fuck it's slow and almost always in the bed. It's not nearly as violent as it used to be, but it's not the most pleasant thing, either. It's not enough, obviously, but it is a nice change. I'm certainly not complaining. The sex isn't usually enough to get me off, but he actually seems somewhat insistent in seeing that I do after. Actually getting off when we have sex is doing wonders for my mood—and grades, as it were. I may actually pass Potions at this rate.

But that's about all he can really do.

He can take me slowly and gently and make me love every minute of it; he's very good at sex, this should be obvious. And he can tuck me under his chin and rub my hair until I'm purring in contentment, and do all the other sudden and spontaneous nice things he does, but it's never going to be enough. I'm laughing uncontrollably on the inside. On the outside, I simply look at him indifferently.

Because at the end of the day, if he asked me if I wanted to have sex with him and I knew I had an actual choice; I would say no. I would say no and book it down the street and get the fuck out of dodge.

And anyway, Voldemort doesn't know how to love. He can imitate it, kind of, in a very mentally challenged way, but in some ways it's almost pitiful to see him try.

He's clearly on the learning curve though, and if there's anything I know about Voldemort it's that he's a fucking genius and people don't call him that for no reason.

"Fuck," I gasp, aroused beyond belief after he's spent what seems like hours torturing me (in the good way… when did I start having to clarify that?) with his fingers and mouth. I'm practically in tears already. "Please… please… fuck me, please—

He's still incapable of ignoring me when I beg, and within moments that enormous cock is lined up against my entrance. I shiver with anticipation, and when he plunges into me all at once, there is perhaps even a small spark of arousal that accompanies the shit ton of pain.

He doesn't move, throwing my leg onto his shoulder, leaving me embarrassingly wide open. He's looking, of course, and normally his impatience would get the better of him and he'd be fucking me until all I wanted is for him to stop. He doesn't; I see the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks upon himself, fully inside me, yet he appears to have no sense of urgency.

I'm actually a little annoyed. I could use a little urgency right now.

I clench against him, hard, and he thrusts into me almost involuntarily in reaction. He's so close I can feel his labored breath against my neck. One hand is holding my leg over his shoulder and he rests his other elbow by my head. We're—impossibly close. He pulls away to straighten up again, still unmoving, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

"Tell me how much you want it," he demands.

This, of course, is familiar.

"I want it so bad," I repeat, diligently. "I want your cock inside me, I want you to fuck me until I can't see straight—I want to feel it when you come inside me… and I want you to make me lick it all back up after." That one usually does the trick, but an… irritated expression crosses his face, and he drops my leg.

This is all very bewildering.

He gives me one last frustrated and conflicted look, and then he fucking pulls out, abruptly and without any warning, and while I'm hissing in pain (he is far too big to be doing that so suddenly) he literally leaves me there, hanging.

I'm blinking at the wall, unseeing and brain dead.

What the hell just happened?

.

.

.

He doesn't summon me for days. A weekend passes and my necklace doesn't burn at all. I'm starting to get a little worried, actually. Can he break a magical contract? I have no idea, I don't think so. So he can't go back on his word, even if he's done with me. Right? I guess he could renegotiate it. Wait, can he? I'm thinking myself in circles.

Either way, that was the deal, after all. He'd stop his plan for mudblood and muggle annihilation in exchange for—me. Handed over on a silver platter with little to no fanfare. I had no idea about any of this until the day someone decided it might be a little necessary to tell me, but after a while I ended up hearing what the terms were. I was his, pretty much. He owned me—he bought me, actually, which makes my blood boil still.

I think it was him who actually asked for it first. Well, asked for me. He knew I was a horcrux from the very first moment he saw me in the graveyard and I suppose he would do anything in his power to have me under him; even giving up his plot to destroy all muggles and blood traitors. I don't know if this means that he really wanted me, or really didn't care all that much about killing off the muggles.

But anyway, whether he wants me or not he still can't return to hunting and killing muggleborns.

(It doesn't escape my notice that the terms of agreement were no hunting of muggles and muggleborns, nothing about stopping his plan for world domination. I guess I wasn't worth that much.)

I'm wary and on edge the longer it goes on. An unpredictable Voldemort is the worst kind of Voldemort. I'd prefer him in his usual murderous rage than this. Or even his usual murderous kinky rage. At least his come play is pretty predictable.

He does finally summon me, after a whole week of radio silence.

We're in one of his personal chambers, and he's standing (fully clothed, might I add) by a table with a little blue bottle on it.

He beckons me over, holding it up.

I can take the hint, and I take it from his hands. I get a whiff of it; the same smell as the last pregnancy potion. Does he think that giving me another one will actually further his unending and impossible quest for a baby? Well, whatever. I gulp it all down and place the bottle back on the table. I don't say anything; if he wants me to do something he'll tell me.

But apparently he's taken a vow of silence in the interim of days since I last saw him, and he doesn't say anything at all.

I chance a glance up at him—and he's just, staring at me. Blatantly. For no apparent reason.

I take a wary step back.

"What?" I say, finally, when the silence gets unbearable.

He takes a step forward and I flinch, ready for the hit, or the crucio, or whatever punishment he has for me for talking back. I haven't talked back since the summer before my fifth year; learned that lesson really fucking quick. For the most part, I say absolutely nothing at all, unless prompted. But when I open my eyes again his hands haven't even left his sides, and there's no wand.

He's still not saying anything, and I search wildly through my mind for what he could possibly want me to do. Well, there's an obvious answer.

I look away, and start unbuttoning my shirt from top to bottom—leaving the tie, because he likes when that comes off last.

"No," he says, finally breaking his stupid silence, when I've just gotten about halfway there.

I look up; I've absolutely no idea what to do. He's never made me fucking guess about it—the moment he summons me there's always a very obvious reason for it, and that reason usually ends with him coming inside me.

I decide to just ask. I have no other options. "What do you want?" I snap, maybe a little too hard, but it only goes to show how freaked out I am.

"Dinner," he replies.

My brain shuts down, and I wait a few moments for it to reboot. I stare at him incredulously. "Uh…?"

"Dinner," he repeats, sounding annoyed. "Is on the table."

There is no way I'm sitting at a table and eating dinner with Lord Voldemort. Except I am. And it's about as horrible as I had assumed. The food isn't bad, but that probably has more to do with the house elves than any consideration towards me, but everything else was bad as you could possibly imagine it to be.

I am drowning in silence, absently moving the untouched food back and forth on my plate.

"Was it not to your liking?" Comes a deadly, volcanic voice from my right.

I still immediately, dropping the fork onto the plate, and taking my hands off the table. "It was fine," I reply, quickly, in the snake tongue. "I… already ate."

Not a lie. I did actually eat already. I am very aware of the fact that I never know when my next meal will be with him—or what, for that matter.

He narrows his eyes at me, but doesn't press the issue. "You're to dine with me from now on," it sounds less like a question and more like a demand.

I can't keep the complete, unadulterated horror that surges to my face at the thought of having to go through this unbearable silence every night. I mask it with a face of neutrality after a second, looking back down.

He frowns, and his tone is utterly poisonous, "Does this displease you?"

"No," I shake my head wildly, terrified. "It's fine."

I'm getting the feeling I'm going to be saying that word a lot. Why is he making me talk to him? I'm pretty sure he prefers me completely silent, willing and submissive. I prefer it that way too; letting him pull my body where he wants is infinitely easier than having to come up with words he wants to hear. One of those requires considerably less brainpower than the other.

I don't look at him, staring down at my plate still entirely full of food. I don't know what the hell has come over me, but I would rather be face down on the bed letting him fuck me into the mattress than have to sit here having him just… stare at me.

"I would be honored to dine with you," I add, hoping this is the right thing to say.

It's not.

He drops his utensil and I flinch violently at the sound; it's practically an ingrained response. Any sudden movement he makes normally has me jumping in fear—and normally he likes that. But right now it only seems to piss him off even more.

I'm fucking up, I think wildly. I used to be so good at doing whatever he wanted, and now I can't seem to get anything right. I'm impressed I'm not dead yet, or being punished until I wish I was dead, at any rate.

He stands up in a fluid motion, and I grip the edge of my seat very tightly, wondering if this is going to be the moment he finally loses it.

Voldemort pulls me out of my chair, before swiftly pivoting and leaving the room. I assume this is a command to follow him. We return to the bedroom, and it surprises me that I haven't seen it all week. I haven't been here all week. I'm struck with a sudden concern that he has been using this time to somehow coerce me into getting pregnant. But I reassure myself that this is utterly impossible; he must be scheming something else. World domination, most likely.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and I wait by the door for his command. Sometimes he wants me to crawl to him. I can't tell if this is one of those days.

"Come here," he says, but he doesn't tell me to crawl, so I walk.

When I'm standing in front of him I have a split second where I wonder what to do. His legs are parted, which might mean he wants me to get on my knees and suck him off. On the other hand, he hasn't told me to, so maybe that's not what he wants? I decide that no one's ever turned down a blowjob, so I sink to my knees in front of him. I see a flicker of desire and lust in his eyes, so I assume this is the right decision.

I make quick work of his pants, unfastening them and pulling out his cock. It springs free and I immediately take it in my hands, put my mouth on it; automatic and robotic, but still just the way he likes it. And he does like it. He's pulling at my hair and slamming me down onto his cock before I even get a minute in or two of sucking him by myself. It's not the worst he's ever fucked my mouth but it's not awesome either, and it's starting to get hard to breathe and I'm fighting down my gag reflex more than I usually do. I can feel the burn in the back of my nose with great relief; tears are almost always what do him in.

But when they start spilling down in earnest he rips me off him. Startled, I end up choking and dry heaving for a couple seconds, blinking the tears out of my eyes and sucking greedily for air.

It was a fine blowjob—everything he likes, executed perfectly.

I blink up at him, slow and detached.

He pulls me to my feet and lays me out on the bed. I go, limp and compliant, trying as much as possible not to fight him, or do anything that could be considered fighting him. He leans down and presses his lips to mine, and I open when he wants me to; lie there and let him explore my mouth. And when he takes my hand and places it on his dick I am very sure to fondle him just the way he likes it, firm at the bottom but soft at the head.

He tugs my pants down and I lift up to let them slide off easier, and with his other hand he—he takes my free one and brings it to his cheek, sliding into his hair. He releases it, and I have no idea what the hell to do. He doesn't like it when I touch him and he hasn't told me to, and this is far too intimate than I've ever touched him before.

I don't know what else to do, so I place it limply on the nape of his neck. It seems like a—a mock imitation of making love.

I mean, he certainly makes love to me. Superficially anyway. He can take me slowly and gently and in a way that most people would consider 'love making'. Of course, I participate in this as minimally and mechanically as possible, so it's really more of a one-sided love making. It looks like he wants me to participate… but I really don't know how. All I've ever known of sex is with him, and none of it can be considered gentle, or referred to as anything even marginally approaching 'love making'.

Whatever he wants to happen is not working, and I know when he grows frustrated because he pulls me up and throws me face down onto the bed.

I don't even complain; I'd much rather him take me from behind. This way I don't have to look at his face.

He shoves my pants out of the way and spells off the rest of my clothing. I'm not at all surprised that he doesn't bother with any kind of prep. There's enough moisture to make it possible but not enough to make it good. This is so familiar though it almost numbs the pain. I'm surprised it took him this long, actually. I can see him getting more and more frustrated when I don't do what he wants—even though he won't tell me what it is—and when he gets frustrated he takes it out on me. Well, if it was caused by his death eaters he takes it out on them, but then also on me.

I lie as still as possible through all of it. On a scale of one to ten it's probably like a six or so, which means it's going to hurt for at least a few days. The friction of his thrusts starts to grow smooth; slicked and fluid, which means I'm probably bleeding. His thrusts are getting faster though, which means he's about to finish. I can feel the hot spurting of fluid, burning with the unnatural feeling of whatever fertility potion he's trying now, almost like a brand on my insides. I ignore it though, even when I feel it leaking out around him, seeping into the sheets.

He lays there for some time, covering me completely, his breath tickling the soft hairs on my nape. I pull my head out of the covers eventually, looking to the side with a vacant expression, wondering how long it's going to take until he falls asleep. I'm estimating about three more times, depending on whatever he's been up to today. I'm kind of hoping he takes me on my back next time. Not that I want to look at his face, but I can probably get away with looking over his shoulder and continuing my game of ceiling tetris.

He wraps his arms around me, and then he rolls us until I'm on my side, and he's pressed behind me, still completely sheathed in me. It's uncomfortable, but a far cry from the positions I used to have to try and sleep in, so I clench my eyes shut and try to escape from here.

"Harry," he whispers, and my eyes snap open in both surprise and alarm.

I stiffen involuntarily, very concerned over what might happen next. He hasn't called me by my name since that one time he tried to drug me into having a baby. I can only imagine why he's doing it now.

He rolls his hips; I bite my lip and a look of pain crosses my features when I feel his cock drive deeper into me, an almost inaudible whimper escapes my mouth.

"Does that hurt?" He asks, in that same tone.

Is this a trick question? Either way, I feel like the answer he's looking for is:

"Yes."

He doesn't do it again though, or ask me to tell him how it feels, or push me face down and tell me to take it like a good boy. He doesn't do anything.

And then, defying all logic, he pulls out. Slowly, even. He places soft, almost apologetic kisses down my neck afterwards, bewildering me further.

I swallow with some difficulty, refusing to look at him even though I can tell he's staring down at me. I hold out valiantly; he has to turn my chin and force me to look at him until I do. He's just—regarding me. Not saying anything. I blink up at him, hiding my alarm behind a lifeless, hollow look. He leans down and takes my bottom lip in his, rolling it slightly before entering my pliant mouth. It's nice enough that my eyes slip closed again and I meet his tongue once or twice with my own.

Afterwards he returns to his position behind me, holding me so tightly against him that

a) there is not an inch of skin we're not touching

and b) I can't breathe

It's obvious in this position to feel his arousal, growing hard again against my back. He doesn't appear to want to do anything about it, which is perhaps the most bewildering thing out of this mind-fuck of a night. He settles in against me, and for all intent purposes, falls asleep.

.

.

.

Like I said about that learning curve; Voldemort can clearly learn anything he puts his mind to. Even faking love. He pretends almost perfectly—aside from the fact that every single thing he does always has an ulterior motive and I'm perfectly aware that he's utterly incapable of feeling positive emotions. And anyway, he can pretend all he wants. Hell, he can fall in love if he wants—that's not going to change anything. I'm still going to hate him. Just because he's being nice suddenly doesn't mean he hasn't completely ruined my life from the day I was born and continued to do so until the day I was handed over to him; after which he didn't just ruin it, but fucking blew it up into oblivion.

I wake up as long sunlight panels the side of my face in filtered warmth. It's the weekend, so he doesn't have to return me at the crack of dawn, but I don't think I've ever slept in anyway.

I don't know what time it is, but it must be rather late. The sun seems high in the sky, but I can't tell from here. Voldemort is no longer pressed impossibly close behind me; he is… on top of me, watching me with dark, calculating eyes. I stir, roll onto my back, and then blink up at him. Again with the staring.

I don't say anything—what am I supposed to say?

He lowers his lips onto mine, and plies my legs apart with his hands, settling between them. While he claims my mouth one slicked finger finds its way to my entrance, teasing lightly at the ring of muscle. My eyes flutter closed, and when he works in two I wrap both hands in his hair and pull him closer, legs spreading wider to allow him more room. He plunges them into me, nice and slow, moving down to mouth against the hollow of my neck.

His thrusts are shallow and cautious, as if he doesn't want to hurt me; as if he hadn't fucked me raw to the point of bleeding last night. Bleeding more than usual, even.

I ignore the pain, it is not nearly as bad as it could be, and I open wider for him and pull him closer and make sounds when I know he wants to hear them. It is all rather mechanical—but of course it is, it always is. I might get off on this one, but it won't be of my own volition. It'll just be… the end result of being stimulated correctly for a certain amount of time.

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and I look away as he positions himself to enter me.

When he doesn't, I tear my eyes from the far wall to see him poised between my splayed legs, staring down at his own fingers. They are, predictably, covered in a mess of bodily fluids; his semen from last night, dried blood, not-so-dried blood, and whatever lube he's using now. He's looking down at them as if this has never happened before.

He gets up after that, and I lift my head to stare incredulously. He appears to be coming back, wandering into the bathroom and then back out after a moment, carrying some kind of jar. I don't pay it too much attention, assuming it's just another kind of lubrication oil.

But then he pushes two fingers back into me and I almost scream in pain.

Holy shit that stuff burns. I hiss and squeeze my eyes shut, fisting the bed sheets. I remind myself that this is definitely not the shittiest thing he's ever done to me, on the grand scale of things. It might not even make top ten; this doesn't make it any less painful living through it.

Still, aside from the stinging pain he actually seems to be… fingering me very cautiously. He pulls them out, and after a moment returns with something cold covering his fingers. I don't quite keep down the noise of pain I make, and he leans up to catch the sound with his mouth. When he repeats this process multiple times, I realize he's not trying to finger fuck me for the fun of it (as usual) but is coating the inside of my passage with some kind of healing salve.

"Oh," I breathe, when I realize what it is. I pull away, looking up at him very curiously.

He looks back, impassive, gaze giving nothing away.

His long, agile fingers probe deeper, and I wince as the burn crawls farther inside me.

"Why are you doing this?" Slips out of me, before I can pull it back.

He regards me deeply, for so long I think he won't reply. "I don't want to hurt you anymore, Harry." He says at length.

This is perhaps the worst joke I've heard all year. Which is saying something—Ron tells very bad jokes.

I'm fairly sure my disbelief is evident on my face; something flashes in his eyes before he's leaning down again, kissing me slowly. When we break apart my expression has turned back into a neutral indifference.

He returns me that afternoon. On a weekend. He still had over twenty-four hours to have me.

I decide it's foolish to read too far into it.

.

.

.

The lack of summoning begins to get disconcerting.

They are coupled with a horrible suspicion and a horrible school year. Snape is more unbearable than usual. Dumbledore wants me to come to his office. Draco Malfoy is a death eater. Shit is real. I'm dreading the upcoming Yule holidays; the memory of my unending time at the dark lord's manor during summer still fresh and terrifying in my mind. School is the only reprieve I have from him. I don't know what I'm going to do when he has me all day everyday.

Honestly I'm more pissed about Dumbledore. Who does he think he is, calling me to his office as if everything's okay? Everything is not okay, and it is almost entirely his fault. I don't delusion myself into thinking it was the Minister who so merrily signed my life away to a mass-murderer. The Minister would have negotiated for more power and keeping the Ministry. He doesn't care at all about muggles and muggleborns if there is personal capitalist gain involved. But I can imagine who would.

I crush the stupid note in my hand, more incensed than I've been in a long time.

Voldemort never makes me mad; he makes me hate him and hate life and hate everyone in it and everything about it, but I don't really get angry at him. I'm sort of resigned at this point to his constant volatile presence. Meanwhile, Dumbledore manages to elicit the emotion where even the dark lord can't—in the space of a couple minutes, at that.

Hermione leans over my shoulder, curious and concerned. I don't want her concern. She doesn't know anything.

To that end, I don't want to tell her anything.

The months continue.

I ignore Dumbledore. Voldemort continues his crusade to drive me to into insanity via constant suspicion—and here I thought he'd manage that with the worst kind of painful sex imaginable. Quite the opposite. It's as if his new goal in life is to get me off as many times as possible. Worse; he's beginning to get good at it. There's only so long I can sit there being compliant until it starts to feel good.

I hate him. I hate that he knows me so well. I hate that I can see the green flecks in his eyes when he leans close to me, I hate that he keeps asking me to talk.

Every time I do it only makes him mad; what do you mean, tell me what you want? 'I fucking hate you, you stupid crazy psychopath, get the fuck away from me, that's what I want'.

I can't say this, obviously, I don't really want to die a painful and torturous death under his hand.

But I have no other words to give him.

All his favorites; all the things he loves to hear me say to him have lost all their meaning. Granted, they never had any in the first place, but he always knew that and it never bothered him before. Just the fact that he could make me say them at all was what got him off; my unwillingness was what he wanted to see, my unwillingness and the fact that he could make me do it regardless. That he was the one to incur pain that I felt at having to submit to him like this—all the shame and humiliation and horror.

I blink, suddenly.

When did that ever stop happening? When did I stop caring what he did either way? I think on this past year—before his strange turn about-face. My mind comes back with a lot of boredom, a lot of generic replies, a lot of perfectly executed sex—and a lot of ceiling tetris. Man, I'm so glad his whole house is tiled like that.

I shake my thoughts away from tetris. When was the last time Voldemort actually… got to me? The way he used to? He used to have me bawling in fear and pain, begging him to stop, shaking and whimpering and trying to ineffectually grasp my way out of his grip. And he loved every minute of it.

Well, there was the whole pregnancy debacle. I was genuinely afraid that first time.

But after I realized how impossible his latest obsession / kink was, it joined the rest of his obsessions / kinks in a haze of disinterest.

He has me on his desk, facing him, legs slung over his shoulders. He's ramming into me with a force that makes all the probably important papers on his desk go flying, along with a few quills and who knows what else. It hasn't been this rough in a while, but there is dangerous anger in his eyes and frustration that leaves me bewildered.

Frustration with me?

But what have I done? The moment I portkeyed here I took my clothes off—leaving the tie—and bent myself over his desk. This did not have its usual effect of a subsequent violent fuck, so I reached back to spread my own cheeks, my own fingers playing against my entrance. It was with great surprise that I realized that it wasn't wet at all; no come slicked in my inner passage, drooling out with my prodding fingers. Either way this seemed to do the trick, because before long he had flipped me over, hauled both my legs over him and plunged himself in to the hilt.

My point is that I have executed everything down to perfection—and he is still, irrationally, illogically unsatisfied.

I clench my fingers around the edge of his desk to keep from flying off with the rest of the inhabitants of his desk; with the intensity of his fucking, it might actually be a legitimate fear.

I watch him with disbelief and a sense of trepidation as I see the anger extrapolate in his eyes, growing into an uncontrollable rage as he drives into me, as his satisfaction continues to allude him. I'm still racing, trying to find something that will satisfy his hunger—for, for whatever the fuck it is that he's so fixated on. Crying, maybe? But that hasn't been working. I could beg him to stop—shake and whimper and whine and cry—but he hasn't asked me to do any of it. Normally there is some kind of prompting from him.

He comes, finally, buried deep inside me and kissing me with a worrying amount of fervor. I obediently keep my mouth open for the invasion, letting his tongue explore my mouth, let him suck and bite my bottom lip until it grows swollen and ragged red.

I'm still staring up at the ceiling when I realize he's staring at me, again. Not even surveying his handiwork with a look of triumphant enjoyment. He drops my legs but I don't close them—the sight of it usually instills some sort of gratification in him. I can feel it without having to see it; the slickness of his release, no doubt accompanied with a rather judicious amount of blood. It's been a really long time since he fucked me that hard, and I was more unprepared for it than usual. My breath is ragged and slow, and I can't seem to catch it.

Holy shit.

It's been a really long time.

"Harry," he starts, looking conflicted.

This also strikes me as strange; when did I stop being 'Potter'?

I draw my gaze down to him, blinking at him owlishly. I don't know if I like the expression on his face—it's a far and radical change from what I'm used to, so I'm not sure how to feel. The frustrated anger has left him, giving way to a stricken look of… anxiety? I can't tell—I feel lightheaded, actually. I think I might be getting a headache. Or that's just all the blood rushing back to my head after so much painful sex.

"Harry…" he begins again, looking down to where I feel like I actually might be bleeding out. "Harry, I didn't mean to—

I blink up furiously at the ceiling, unable to tell if it's just the usual residual excess bodily fluids or if there's something abnormal. It's been so long I can't tell. It all feels warm and sticky either way. Except when I rub my legs together it's not the sticky, tacky feeling of semen clinging to my skin; it's slick and smooth, like lube. A lot of lube.

Except we didn't use any lube.

The dark lord's face has gone from wary to completely concerned and—fearful?

I look down.

Oh.

Oh shit.

Maybe I actually am bleeding out.

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.

.

The doctor gives us a very unimpressed look.

He doesn't know who we are, of course, not only because I'm glamoured into another generic set of features and no one knows what the dark lord looks like, but also because he is a muggle. As in we are in a muggle hospital. As in Lord Voldemort has stepped into a muggle hospital.

This would be more bewildering to me if I wasn't suffering from severe blood loss and was still feeling incredibly disoriented and out of it. But as I sit there in a haze, thinking about the mind-blowing position we're currently in, I can at least see some merit to it. After all, there is absolutely no possible way anyone will recognize us in the muggle world.

The doctor warns us about the dangers of having 'enthusiastic rough sex' without full preparation, and then goes on to reprimand us for not taking the proper precautions. I sit there silently through all of this, wondering when the man will die in a fit of violent rage incurred by the dark lord. To my surprise, he simply continues on lecturing, and Voldemort is a completely silent and unreadable figure by my side. I apparently ruptured something important and had some serious internal bleeding. Again, if I wasn't totally fucked out by blood loss I'd find this kind of hilarious. The dark lord's dick put me in the hospital. His cock might have even done more damage to me than he's ever been able to do with a wand. Supposedly if we hadn't stopped the bleeding in time I might have actually had a very legitimate risk of death.

Well, that's definitely one way to fulfill the prophecy.

There's some more advisement on taking extra care for at least a couple weeks, maybe even stopping intercourse entirely. Apparently this also wasn't the first time I've had some very dangerous internal bleeding—obviously—but it was definitely the most severe. He says something about internal scarring from what amounts to be many occurrences of this, and goes on to caution us to prepare better, but I shrug that off. Whatever, who cares about scarring if you can't see it anyway. The good doctor then sends us on our way with one last warning and a whole lot of lube.

I can't imagine the dark lord being okay with any of this—or even sitting here silently as some muggle chastises us (but mostly him) about our violent sex life. Except this is exactly what's happening, and when we return to his manor he doesn't do anything else but drop me in bed.

He leaves for some time, returning with at least half a dozen vials.

I recognize most of them from the incredible amount of time I've managed to spend in Madame Pompfrey's office; a blood-replenishing potion, pain-relief potion, some sort of green one I vaguely recall being used to mend open wounds, a few more I've never seen before and a vial of dreamless sleep.

I take them all with little fanfare, refusing to look anywhere near his direction.

The dreamless sleep works almost immediately, and I feel my eyes growing sleepy and the lingering pain disappear as the pain-relief potion takes effect. He watches this whole process without saying a word. But as I'm starting to drift off, I feel something warm and heavy smoothing against my forehead. A hand, I think, but then I'm fast asleep.

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.

.

He doesn't even touch me for a very, very long time after that.

I can't make up my mind whether this concerns me or not.

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We're having dinner again—we have dinner every night, it's the worst.

He narrows his eyes at me as if he expects me to ask him how his day was. For the most part I am completely unable to eat anything in his presence. I'm starting to noticeably lose weight. It's not even like it's bad food; I just can't eat. I feel sick to my stomach.

I don't really feel like eating at all, actually. In the same way I don't feel like doing anything, ever.

My bag is in the other room, stuffed full with assignments. The whole 'spending your nights getting fucked by the dark lord' does not bode well for homework time. But ever since that one time he almost killed me with his penis, he rarely initiates intimacy these days. And if he does, it's really intimate; slow and careful in a way that has me blushing furiously the whole way through. And there are very few things he can do that can embarrass me anymore.

I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I'm starting to wish—against all logical reason—for him to go back to the way he used to.

He was so simple then, so predictable. He wanted to fuck me, to own me, to make me submit in whatever fashion caught his fancy that day. He wanted me to beg and scream and cry for him, crawl on my knees or bend over the table. These are all commands that all accumulate to one end goal: he wants to own me, and he wants to remind me that I'm his every moment he can.

Is this all still some convoluted plot to get me pregnant?

Maybe, I wouldn't put it past him. On the other hand, it's been months, and he's always been quick to cut his losses.

His expression is quite deadly. "You've not eaten your food."

I look down at my plate; completely untouched. As is my wine. I don't really care if he's trying to slip something into my drink—he doesn't even need to, if he wanted to give me something he'd only have to hand it to me—I just don't like wine, either.

I lower my eyes. "I'm not hungry."

I don't look at him; I don't want to see his expression.

"Very well."

I refuse to look up, but his tone is cold enough to make me shiver.

The plates disappear, as do the wine glasses. I stay very still; like prey, waiting for the predator to make the first move. He stands fluidly, and leaves the room. I don't know if he wants me to follow him; I've followed him, and I've stayed here, and he didn't punish me for either.

I wait for at least ten minutes, listening closely for any sound of movement.

I don't hear any.

I creep back to the other room; I don't ever leave Voldemort's personal chambers, not because I'm not allowed but because I don't want to know who I'll run into outside of them. Not to mention I don't think any of the death eaters know I'm here—or even that Voldemort signed the contract at all. If he doesn't want them to know, I'm not going to be the one to tell them. The room is about as impersonal as every other room he has. Aside from the bookshelf, which I assume is full of texts he enjoys.

I take a seat on one of the couches, pulling my bag from beneath.

I wrench out the essay assigned two weeks ago, due tomorrow. History of Magic: my worst class. It's my remedial sleep class, which is crucial but detrimental for my grade. How much or how well I sleep is entirely dependent on Voldmort's mercurial moods, so having an hour of extra sleep is a necessity.

But all this means that I don't actually know what I'm supposed to be writing about.

Something about some kind of revolution in some kind of century involving some kind of magical creature.

I sit for what could be hours buried in my history textbook, flipping through pages and trying to skim through everything I've missed. It's a lot.

I'm keen to listen to any sudden noises, but I don't hear even a whisper of Voldemort for the duration I'm curled up on the couch, hunched over a textbook. It obviously isn't working; also, I'm very tired. I'm asleep in about an hour, with nothing but an introductory paragraph written down.

.

.

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When I wake up the next morning, there's a blanket over me and my parchment is full of an unfamiliar, but perfect illustrative scrawl, depicting an entire synopsis of the Vampire Wars of 1874.

.

.

.

I get a perfect grade on the paper.

Professor Binns is utterly ecstatic and pulls me aside to ask about my opinion. Quite frankly, I'm surprised he assumes that it's even mine at all. Or that he doesn't remember the perfect scrawl of a perfect student he'd taught before. Maybe he just forgot about Tom Riddle? I wouldn't put it past the barmy ghost.

I'm not all that interested in discussing my paper; I'm more interested in why I even have a paper at all. When I left that morning I was too stunned and too late to do much else other than portkey and sprint to my first class. I've never actually fallen asleep deeply enough to miss the 5am cut. I suppose the cutoff isn't enforced unless he's making me stay—unless I don't want to be there. I'm assuming; because he's still alive, it's 9am, and the world hasn't ended yet.

I spend the entire day in an numbing haze, unable to make my mind up on how I feel.

In the end, the school day comes and goes and I still haven't formed any thoughts around the fact that Lord Voldemort did my History of Magic homework. I cheated, I think hysterically. I'm sorry professor, the dark lord did my homework. If I'm finding that so funny I'm definitely losing my mind.

I'm lounging in my dorm room, staring sightlessly out the tower window. The world outside is held in an indeterminable stasis between day and night; obscured by a long wash of gray-white film of homogenous texture and color. It could be five at night, or five in the morning. I'm pretty sure it's only been five minutes though. I look down and realize I've been fiddling with the pendant, chain loose around my fingers. I drop it like a hot coal, sitting up and staring down at myself. For the first time in a very long time there are no marks of any kind marring my body. I don't feel gross both inside and out, sticky with semen and littered with bruises.

The days roll by.

My portkey doesn't activate, though I find myself toying with it at odd hours of the day. I drop it the moment I recognize what I'm doing, but I always end up once again winding the chain around my finger. Why? Am I waiting to feel it burn to life?

This is absurd. I'm thinking about him all the time.

More than that, I'm thinking about what he's up to. It's clear that I'm fucking up. I'm no longer pleasing him—I'm somehow, impossibly, no longer what he wants. He seems to have completely washed his hands of his horcrux Harry Potter—and I am at a total loss as to why and how to fix it.

Because I have to fix it, somehow.

The fate of all the muggleborns and muggles and all the hope and peace of the world is depending on me to find a way to once more want him to stick it up my ass. This sounds utterly ludicrous, but that's only because it's one hundred percent true. I'm not a fool, and I'm not blind—the hours and days I spend with him have lured him into a sense of complacency. I'm his new favorite shiny toy and he dismisses all his others; and by 'other's I mean his plans for world domination, mass murder and torturing of innocents, etc.

Or I was, anyway.

I'm pretty sure I'm just another fascination that has stopped fascinating him.

I clench my hands. How? Why? What am I doing wrong? What have I done to deserve this? It might seem like a piece of freedom but I can't live with a freedom I know I traded in for the lives of all my friends. Worse: it's more than that. And I know it. I can't lie to myself.

Before I can even think to talk myself out of it, I'm activating it in a whirl of time and space.

Lord Voldemort blinks up at me with some small modicum of surprise. He looks to be somewhat busy, long scrolls of parchment rolled across his desk, quill in hand. I'm at a loss as to what to do; I hadn't exactly thought this far. I don't even know what I wanted to accomplish with this. I should probably say something, but I don't. He looks about as confused as I feel.

Instead I walk over to him, crawl into his lap and kiss him.

He's frozen into place, unmoving and unresponsive, so after a moment I pull away, completely and utterly mortified. A horrible flush crawls up my neck, as I stare in total, incomprehensible horror. This doesn't last long though; he grabs me and pulls me back, devouring my mouth. I let him. His furious intensity mellows into soft, but persistent kisses. His hands flirt with the ends of my shirt, skimming against the skin beneath but not wandering farther.

The proceedings which happen next still flummox me. I kiss him back, timid and docile, shyly licking into his mouth. He lets me; welcomes it, actually, one hand winding up into my hair to hold me still and the other smoothing over my bottom, pulling me closer. I'm cupping his head between my hands, mouthing against him slow and sweet, rolling my hips against him in time with his own. We're snogging, is what's happening. Like a pair of teenagers in an abandoned alcove, stealing minutes before Snape comes to drag them out.

We break apart; I'm still so close I can rest my forehead against his, breathing like I just maneuvered through a Wronski Feint.

I suck in a sudden, faltering breath. "Why did you do my paper?" I find myself asking, so quiet I could have imagined it.

There's a beat. "Why did you come here?" He flips the question back to me—there is utterly no space between us; we're nose to nose, breathing the same air.

I blink rapidly. What am I to say? "I… I don't know." I whisper; that's the truth. I have no fucking clue why.

He pulls me away, studying me very closely.

"What do you want, Harry?"

The question catches me off guard, taking me a moment to formulate a response that isn't, 'I'd like you to stop playing fucking mind games with me, and maybe throw yourself off a bridge'.

"I want you to fuck me," I say. It might be lacking any significant excitement, but it's definitely the right thing to say.

I see his eyes darken with lust, and take it as a sign to continue.

"Please," I add on, just in case. "I want it so bad."

And then he's prying me off him, to my total bewilderment. When I look up at him, there's still a latent desire burning in his crimson eyes. I don't get it. Why is he pushing me away?

Not only that, but he's rising from his chair—and appears to be, for all intent purposes, about to leave the room.

"No," I plead, before I even know what I'm saying.

He stills, turning around very slowly, expression indifferent.

"What…" I pause, swallowing thickly. "What do you want?"

He's still regarding me with that unreadable look; I stand there, fidgeting for some time, worried and fearful and very much so concerned. Desperate—that's what I'm feeling. I have to please him somehow.

If I don't… I don't even want to contemplate it. It'd be disastrous.

"Please tell me," I beg, the desperation seeping into my voice. "I can't—" My breath hitches. "I can't do what you want if you don't tell me what it is."

He still won't reply. My eyes are wide and beseeching and if this doesn't work I don't know what will, but we can't keep going on like this. I'm messing everything up and I don't understand how to stop—nothing I do, no matter what I try, seems to please him anymore. And it'll only be a matter of time until he decides I'm worthless to him and he doesn't want me. And then the contract will be useless. And every muggleborn will have me to blame.

I walk closer, hesitant. He doesn't move, doesn't pull away when I raise a hand to his face.

"Please, Tom." I bring shivering hands to cup his cheeks, standing on my tiptoes to place my trembling lips atop his. "Tell me what you want."

His arms are around me, his hands clenching sporadically against my hips. His eyes close and he makes a small noise against my mouth at the use of his name, his grip tightening to the point of painful. He pulls me away, but I grasp his arms before he can pull me any farther. I cling to him like a cat dragging its claws in the carpet, scared and terrified, unwilling to let go.

"I want you," he replies, unsteady, staring deeply upon me. Searching. Pensive.

I give him an incredulous look, still wary and tense. "You—you have me," I point out, quiet.

Is that not blatantly obvious? He practically bought me; I'm not sure how much more he can own me. I'm practically a commodity for sale. A commodity contractually owned by him.

He releases me then, prying himself out of my grip. I'm at arms length again, at a loss as to what to do.

An irritated look crosses his face. My eyes dart to his hands, watching wearily for his wand to draw to me with an unforgiveable at its tip. It doesn't, but when I look back up his irritation has grown tenfold—passing annoyance and flinging headlong into uncontrollable rage. This concerns me more; why must he be so mercurial? What the hell could I possibly be doing wrong?

A dark look besieges him, predictably full of livid anger. But there is also a deep seated frustration and dissatisfaction to it.

"Go back to school, Harry." He says, finally. I'm so surprised I don't know what to say. "You've a test tomorrow you should be studying for."

How the hell does he know that?

I throw him a conflicted look. On the one hand, this is clearly not what he wants. It's obvious from his features, which still bear great anger and frustration. But on the other hand, he gave me an order, and I'm supposed to follow any order he gives me.

I pull the pendant portkey out from under my shirt, clasping it lightly. I look down at it; my hand is shaking, just slightly. I stare down at it as if it's the catalyst for the apocalypse. Considering the scenario, that might not be much of an exaggeration.

I need to convince him. I don't care about whatever torture he wants to subject me to—at this point, I would prefer it. It would suck, but at least I could relish in the relief of knowing that my friends are safe.

When it becomes clear I'm struggling to activate it, he moves to do it himself.

At the very last second, I wrench it out of his grip.

I don't know who's more surprised—me or him. I know I'm disobeying, but I hold it away from him regardless.

"No—please no." I plead, feeling a burn behind my eyes. I don't remember the last time he made me cry; normally it's an occurrence that happens at least once a day. He gets off on it, actually. Or used to. I don't know why it's not working to my favor right now. "Please don't send me back."

One hand is fisted by my side shaking, the other grasped do tightly against the pendant I think I could actually break the stone; I look at him beseechingly, feeling like my heart is attempting to dropkick it's way out of my chest, possibly starting a revolution against me and getting all my limbs to join it.

"Just tell me," I say, frantically, when he still doesn't reply. "Whatever you want from me… I'll do it, I promise. I'll—I'll do whatever you want."

I think I might be crying in earnest now; I feel so numb I couldn't be able to tell either way. This is it. This is the fate of the world right now, resting on whether I can convince Lord Voldemort that I'm still useful to him—as a whore, an outlet for his anger, a horcrux, whatever.

He draws closer to me, silent and indecipherable.

I clench my eyes shut, completely terrified and unprepared for whatever he has in store. Every option is horrible; it's a lose-lose situation in every possible way.

He pries the necklace out of my flimsy grip.

I open my eyes, surprised, just in time to catch his expression before I'm taken away.

I don't know what it was.

.

.

.

I throw the stupid thing to the ground, fall in a heap on my bed, and silently curse everything and everyone in this stupid, fucked up, wasteful shithole that is my life.

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.

I am sullen and pissy and in a proper foul mood the entire week. People stay far, far away from me. And those who don't are quickly ushered away by Hermione and Ron. What would I do without them, seriously.

"I can tell you want to ask," I breathe out, defeated, as Ron chances another glance at me after he effectively punts Seamus out of our dorm and down the stairs.

Ron turns to me, shrugging. "Nah, mate." He replies, light and easy. "I can see you don't wanna talk about it—don't force yourself, y'know?"

I give him a wan smile. "Thanks, Ron."

He shrugs. "Sure, sure," and then, "Say—you started on that Potions essay?"

I give him a snort of disbelief.

He nods sagely. "Yeah, figured as much. Listen, I was thinking we scheme Hermione into leaving hers in the common room and just copy it real quick—she won't even notice."

I smirk slightly at that. "Make sure to change the name at the top," I remind, because I will never let him live that day down; Snape addressed him as Miss Granger the entire day, because Ron had given him an assignment that still said her name on it and attempted to pass it as his own.

He scowls. "When will you ever let me live that down?" He whines, but saunters down with me good-naturedly anyway.

Turns out we don't even have to connive Hermione to do anything. She takes one look at me and hands it over—along with all the rest of our homework for the week. Ron bows furiously in her direction; Hermione shoves him away.

She turns to me with a stricken, concerned look, but only leans down to hug me and kiss my forehead. "Feel better soon," she murmurs against my hair, and I almost feel tempted to lean into the touch. It's the first touch I've actually enjoyed in a very long time.

"I'll try," I answer, feebly. This means no. She smiles anyway.

I feel a little better after that, though. All hope isn't truly lost. There are other ways to defeat the dark lord, and I know each and every one—I know the location of each and every horcrux. I can feel them, as if they're all a part of me, no matter where they are. I guess, in that regard, I really am the only one who has the power to defeat him. A power that he gave me, at that. I snort. My life truly is one gigantic cosmic joke.

A cosmic joke that gets progressively worse as the week continues.

It's Friday, and normally that would instill within me a violent terror where there should be unadulterated excitement over two days without school. But I haven't been all that fearful of them in some time—don't even notice them anymore, now that I'm not summoned to his side for the whole two days. Hermione, and the rest of the student body, think it's some sort of elaborate training to defeat the dark lord that keeps me away for days and hours on end. Training to defeat him in the bedroom, maybe.

We're leaving our final class when I hear a tinny voice shouting my name incessantly down the halls.

"Go on ahead," I wave Ron off. "But don't start the game without me, okay? It's not fair if you all already have a head start."

Because we take our exploding snap very seriously in Gryffindor tower, okay.

A little first year trots up to me, completely out of breath. I blink. Why the hell is he running, anyway? He could have just walked.

"I have a message you," he wheezes, doubled over.

I blink. "…Okay?"

"From Professor Dumbledore." He adds, panting.

My eyes darken and my mood takes a swan dive.

I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to talk to him ever again—or see his face, for that matter. I've effectively ignored him all year. I don't want to hear what he has to say; whatever paltry excuses he has for signing my life away. I don't want to know what I'm worth to him—and to the world at large, apparently.

"That's great," I turn around, dismissive. "Tell him I'm busy."

"But—!" The boy looks up at me, gaping. "He asked!"

"Yeah—and I'm saying I'm busy."

"Dumbledore asked me to come get you, specifically, right now. He said to come immediately." The Ravenclaw insists.

"Tell him to fuck off," I retort, flippant and completely beyond caring at this point. Let Dumbledore do whatever the fuck he wants.

The first-year looks utterly horrified that I could ever disgrace the benevolent and all-wondrous headmaster. "He… he insisted." The boy urges. "He told me to get Professor Snape to bring you if you didn't reply."

I snort. "Let him," I turn around at that, waving a careless hand.

The boy continues to sputter behind me, but I ignore it.

True to form, the towering figure of Professor Snape finds me as I'm leaning out of an alcove, looking down upon the beautiful, snow cloaked grounds. Two parts enjoying the scenery, one part idly entertaining the idea of my death via five hundred foot drop. That'd be something they'd talk about for centuries, I bet. Did you know there was a boy who fell out a window? Yeah, it wasn't the Astronomy Tower! Bet he was just drunk or sleeping or something.

Or feeling like life is an enormous waste of time.

"Professor," I greet, weary and hollow.

His expression pinches at the sight of me—I wonder, will he detect house points? Much like the dark lord, my continued apathy over anything and everything he tries to insult me with only elicits his ire further. But Snape isn't the dark lord, so I don't even bother trying to figure out what his problem is.

"Mr. Potter," he drawls, acidly. "I believe it has been called to your attention that your presence is required in the Headmaster's office."

"Is it?" I reply, slowly, returning to look out the window.

"Now is not the time for your insolent, you stupid child," he growls, grabbing me by the arm and hauling me off my seat.

I stagger, but don't do anything to try to get out of his grip. He releases me eventually, and with great indifference do I follow him. He leads me through the winding halls, strangely stiff-backed and—and anxious? But when is Snape ever anything but moody and reclusive? We finally make it to the gargoyles, and the scene that greets me in the office is enough to completely shatter my indifference, and also maybe my sanity.

Because Lord Voldemort is lounging on one of Dumbledore's heinous paisley printed couches, an untouched cup of tea in front of him, expression downright murderous.

Dumbledore is opposite of him, popping a lemon sherbet into his mouth and sipping on his earl gray.

I freeze, everything in me growing cold.

They both turn at our entrance, and belatedly I realize why Snape was acting so strangely. Dumbledore looks upon me with a convoluted expression of regret, sadness, and concern—fuck him. And Voldemort… something flickers in the dark lord's eyes when he catches sight of me, but it returns to it's usual, vesuvian rage soon enough.

"What's the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" He drawls, callous and annoyed. "I thought I made it very clear that Harry Potter is no longer of any interest to me."

My heart seems to convulse and constrict upon itself at his words; my mind has run blank.

No.

This can't be happening.

I've well and truly failed. This is it—it's over. It's all over.

"Ah, yes that's right," Dumbledore agrees, amiable. "One in exchange for the other, no? I suppose that's a fair deal."

"And I agree," retorts Voldemort, curt and dismissive. "The ring, old man."

I stir at that, following Voldemort's gaze where—Dumbledore is holding a small, almost insignificant looking ring in one hand.

"But that's not entirely your decision, is it?" Dumbledore continues, talking over him.

Dark red eyes narrow down at the headmaster.

Dumbledore turns to me again. I feel like a deer stuck in the grasp of death, staring down into bright white headlights. "Mr. Potter is just as much a part of this deal as you are."

"I don't recall Mr. Potter signing any contract, do you?" He ripostes, loftily. "That was all you."

"Indeed." Dumbledore intones, gravely, looking genuine and insensibly saddened. "And I do not wish to make that same mistake again."

I blink rapidly, looking between the two of them and trying to make sense of just what the hell is going on. Snape at least seems just as confused as I do. Hah, he might actually even be in a shittier position than I am. Both Voldemort and Dumbledore in the same room—didn't he swear fealty to both? I can imagine that might get a little… difficult to keep that act up.

Fortunately for him though, neither of them are paying him much mind.

No, all their attention is fixated on me.

"Does that not sound fair, Harry?" Dumbledore again, turns his gaze to me.

My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. "…What?" I finally rasp, quiet and confused.

"I leave this decision up to you, my dear boy." I would normally take offense to that, but I'm still trying to process what the hell is going on.

"What—what decision?"

"The renegotiating of the contract," Dumbledore explains, patiently. "I believe it would be far more equitable if it was you who decided whether to accept the changes or not."

"Oh," I say, thickly, unable to come up with a better response.

A little piece of parchment drifts into the air and comes wandering over to me, followed quickly by a quill. I look down at the swimming letters, still in so much shock that I can barely comprehend what they all mean. It's… it's a contract. One that probably bears great similarities to whatever one condemned me to a life under the control of Lord Voldemort. But this one does not say anything about that—it simply says that the terms of the standing agreement will be changed only in the nature of the subject given to the dark lord. Already, his signature is inlaid at the bottom, effectively signing me away for this—this new subject.

A ring. Instead of me, it will be a ring.

"Fine," I answer, faintly, as things start to click into place.

The ring. That must be a horcrux—there is nothing else that Voldemort would ever possibly consider trading me in for. One receptacle of his soul for another. Is that all I am to him now? Just another object whose only value is the part of his soul housed inside of it? Even more concerning; why does that matter to me? Why do I care what kind of regard Voldemort holds me in at all?

I look up at Dumbledore, wondering what his end game is with this.

Because I know he might have that ring—but it is most assuredly no longer a horcrux.

I can feel them far better than Voldemort can, which is surprising but I guess not entirely so. He doesn't seem to be able to feel them as intimately as I do; cannot feel their very location, no matter how far that may be.

Can't feel when they've been destroyed.

He's find out eventually, I want to say to him. And what do you thin he'll do once he does?

He might be contractually obligated not to kill off the muggles and muggleborns—but that's to say nothing of everyone else.

"Fine," I repeat, snapping the contract shut. And then, looking up at the headmaster, "But I'd prefer to talk to him alone."

This is clearly not something he expected me to say—that either of them expected me to say, as it were.

"Are you sure, Harry?" Dumbledore replies, hesitant. "That may not be an advisable course of action; it could present a great danger to you—

"What could? Being alone in the same room as him?" I snort. "That's a little late, don't you think?"

Behind me, I hear Snape make a strangled noise.

Ah, gigs up then on that one.

A horrible, guilt-ridden look casts over Dumbledore's face. To be honest, I don't really like the look of that either. It doesn't bring me great, vindictive pleasure to see his pained and stricken face; I look upon it with indifference. Let him feel what he likes.

"If you think it best," he intones, gravely.

I give him an annoyed glance. Who does he think he is, telling me that? But he leaves the room after that, casting me one last worried look before he ushers both himself and a shocked Snape out of the room.

But with both of them gone the room descends into a horrible, horrible, unending silence—that I don't know how to break.

I don't know what to say; I never know what to say.

I swallow thickly. This is my last chance, though. Hell, I might have already missed it. But it's an opportunity nonetheless—one I feel like I'm going to fuck up the same way I've been fucking them all up for the past few months.

"Tom," I say, and something flashes briefly over his face; evidence that he's not as indifferent as he'd want me to believe. I put the contract down.

"Why are you doing this?" I try to remain calm and unaffected, but my voice is still brittle and hurt.

"What am I doing wrong?" I whisper forlorn.

And then, sucking in a breath, "Do you—do you not want me anymore?" I ask, unsteady, so quiet it hardly carries over the unending silence of the room.

Those bright red eyes survey me, giving nothing away. "I always want you," he replies, just as quiet.

"You have me," I insist, voice cracking. "All of me, every inch of me—I'll do whatever you want me to."

A sudden thought occurs to me, my eyes widening as horror grips my heart. "Is it…" I suck in a breath, stumbling over my words. "Is it a baby you want?"

I genuinely have no idea why the fuck he'd ever want one of those, but he's fixated long enough on it that I can only assume it's something he wants badly.

I feel my entire system shut down at that, but steel my heart regardless. I can… I can make myself want that, right? I was laughing hysterically at how impossible that would be a few months ago, but now I'm horrified at the very idea. Can I make myself genuinely want something like that?

"I'll give it to you," I find myself saying, faintly—frantically. "I'll give you whatever you want."

"No," he says, and I don't know whether what I'm feeling is relief or disappointment.

"Then please," I close my eyes, shaking, feeling tears of frustration and fear springing up again, and trying very hard not to let them fall. Apparently crying won't be doing me any good anymore. "Please, tell me what it is. Please. What do you want from me?"

He stands, and studies me very carefully—every single inch of me, all the expanse of skin that he owns completely and irrevocably.

"I want you, Harry." He repeats, as if this isn't the exact same thing he's said every time—as if it's something he hasn't already accomplished.

My eyes fly up to him, searching his gaze, confused and bewildered. "But you… you have me," I remind him, brokenly. "A—All of me… body and soul."

I don't know what else to say.

I feel as if I see his lips quirk into a wan smile, but I could very well have imagined it. "You're missing something."

I blink. "What?"

"You're missing a part." He repeats, quiet.

I flash back to what I just said, trying to figure out what he's talking about. Missing what? Missing one part of what? What did I say? Body… soul…

I suck in a breath.

Mind. That's the saying, isn't it? Mind, body, and soul?

"Oh," I say, softly.

I still… I still don't understand.

"But you have that too," I whisper, confused. "I… I said I'd do whatever you wanted. I'll do anything you want."

"Yes, Harry." He sighs. "But what do you want?"

I scrutinize his face, both dismay and despair prevalent on my own. What do I want? Aside from his tragic and dramatic death by nuclear explosion? Nothing. Well, I'm hungry and I kind of want a sandwich, but other than that nothing. But that's not true either, is it? A part of me is all set to dance upon his grave, and the other part unwillingly feels a horrible twist at the very thought of his death. Of a life without him. Which is about to become a very real reality if I don't say something quickly.

But what's compelling me to stop him? A heroic complex and an unending need to sacrifice myself for the good of the world? What, do I just like playing the martyr that much? Maybe that's not it either, though.

I clearly don't answer in time, because he must find something in my silence that makes him turn around, reaching for the piece of parchment on Dumbledore's desk.

He holds the contract aloft and I can see him pulling out his wand, to burn it, no doubt. To destroy it.

Something seizes in me, and before I know it I'm grabbing the thing out of his hands.

He looks down at me in surprise, clearly not expecting such a vehement response. In his defense, neither was I. I seem to be surprising the both of us quite often these days. His look turns downright shocked when I take it and throw it as hard as I can across the room, where it's lost in all the junk and trinkets of the office.

And then I turn around and crash his lips onto mine. His surprise keeps him immobile for a moment, but then he's grasping my head in his hands and relentlessly overtaking the kiss, utterly overwhelming me in every way. And I let him. He backs me into something hard, but we don't stop.

I pull away then, and refuse to look at his face—I don't think I could stomach what I would see there—grabbing him rather violently and hiding my face into his neck.

"I hate you," I whisper fiercely, angrily, wrapping my arms around him. "There's no one I hate more than you—you're cruel and horrible and possibly the worst person on earth. All you've ever done is make my life miserable; either by hurting me or humiliating me or doing whatever other sick shit you like to do."

He is immobile beneath me; as still as stone, and about as cold and unfeeling as one, too. "Harry," he murmurs, but it's impossible to read anything in his tone.

I lean my head against his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut. "But I'm yours," I choke out, feeling traitorous tears escaping without my consent. "I'm yours and you can't just—you can't just throw me away—

"Harry," he says again, and something like shock colors his voice into something I can recognize.

"You can't leave me," I whisper, faltering, crying uncontrollably, much to my own dismay. The tears probably aren't going to help me right now.

His arms wrap around me, holding me impossibly tight. "You're mine, Harry," he replies, low and dangerous. "Do you think I want to give you up?"

"I…"

I've no idea, actually.

"No, of course not, you foolish child. You are mine, Harry Potter. And mine alone." The hand around my head clutches into my hair, almost painfully. "But it is very apparent that you would prefer death over me."

I swallow thickly. I've definitely thought that, kind of all the time, and I might have shouted it at him before, back when I actually thought talking back and fighting him would do me any good.

"That's not…" True, I want to say. But even that might be a lie.

"You're absconded from the contract," he goes on to say. "Your precious muggleborns are still safe from me. What more can you want?"

I'm at a loss for words, mainly because he's right. What else could I possibly want? I'm free from the contract—but it's still in effect. This stupid horcrux ring is effectively saving my life from an eternity of hell. I should be throwing it in his face and running for the fucking hills.

And then, "What do you want?"

I just admitted that I was his; but is that something I would have chosen for myself? He owns me, obviously, that's rather blatantly apparent. But he has had his mark upon me since I was a baby—I've never known anything else. Had I the choice, would I have wanted to be his? I don't know.

"I don't know," I mumble into his shirt, eventually, echoing my thoughts.

I'm ruining everything.

First of all, my only chance at freedom. Second, Dumbledore's—admittedly—very cunning plan to switch me for the ring and dupe the dark lord. He'll sign the re-negotiated contract for his other horcrux, binding him to once again give up his plans for muggleborn and muggle annihilation, but what's going to happen once he realizes that the ring is already destroyed? That it's simply just a ring, without a piece of soul? He's going to lose his shit, is what's going to happen. And maybe I'll survive the wrath but I very much so doubt the rest of the world will be so lucky.

But I can't lie to myself; it's more than just my hero complex getting the better of me.

It's always been more.

"But I know it's not that." I refuse to look up. "I don't… I don't want you to give me away."

He wrenches my head up at that, tilting my face forcibly to look at him. My eyes open, but then close again when he comes crashing down on me, with an overwhelming fervor that literally sweeps me off my feet. He grabs both my legs and lifts me up, moving somewhere, I don't know, I don't pay it any attention at all, wrapping my arms around him and kissing him back just as fiercely.

I'm dropped unceremoniously onto something. Very vaguely do I register it as a desk, all of my thoughts fixated on the man in front of me, his glowing eyes so close to my own.

"That would make two of us, then." He breathes into my mouth, slow and soft.

And then he's kissing me again, and I forget how to think, again. My shirt comes off, somehow, defying the laws of physics because I definitely don't remember breaking apart even once for it to slide over my head. The magical disappearing act happens to my pants as well. To everything I'm wearing, actually. Huh, look at that.

He lowers me down, until I'm lying flat on my back and he's covering every inch of me.

Everything is hot and heady; the filthy scrape of teeth and tongue, his wandering hands burning into me wherever they touch. One hand comes to pull my leg around him, and something scorching and feverish sparks inside me. I can't remember the last time I was so irrevocably turned on—it's consuming,

But in the middle of all this—he stops.

I open my eyes in surprise. No way. He isn't—

Except he totally is.

He detaches himself from my grip, standing upright with an ungodly amount of space between us; just simply looking. Just looking. I'm splayed out beneath him, panting, pliant and naked and easy, and that's normally more than enough to incense his desire into something uncontrollable.

I blink up at him, my own lust clearing the longer he stands above me, not touching me.

I raise up slowly, confused.

"What—" I gaze up at him confusion. "Tom—what's wrong?"

What am I not doing right, is what I really want to ask.

He doesn't answer me.

"You don't need to do this, Harry." He replies instead—and I don't know what to say.

He's never given me an option not to. A choice.

And didn't I say that, if I had the opportunity to choose for myself, I would shove him away and make for the other side of the world in a heartbeat? That my answer would be a resounding 'hell fucking no' every single time?

So why am I sitting here, unable to make the words come out of my mouth?

"I know," I find myself saying, involuntarily, completely going against my own mind. "But I—" The words lodge themselves in my throat, refusing to work their way up. I close my eyes, and force them out.

"I want to," I finish, shaky, barely above a whisper.

He is still and silent, and I can't force myself to look up—to open my eyes and face reality at all.

But reality isn't going to wait forever, and soon enough I'm dragging my eyes upwards, looking upon him with an emotion even I don't quite know how to categorize. Fear, pain, desire, sorrow—I can't even imagine how all of them manage to find their way into my expression.

"I want to," I repeat, swallowing, holding his gaze. "Isn't that enough?"

His unreadable expression breaks at that, all his restraint ruined in that moment as I'm suddenly flung back down onto my back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. He turns my lips to his, insatiably, as if he has no patience left. It all moves so fast; there's the tingling sensation of a lube charm; deft, nimble fingers working into me in all the right ways; his hot mouth dragging down from my lips to burn searing marks into the hollow of my throat. It makes something hot and feverish pool in my stomach, a needy ache I don't know what to do with—but it's all also happening so fast, so overwhelmingly, and then his fingers are withdrawing and I can't stop myself—

I freeze up, ice cold fear burning through all the warm, desirous arousal in the space of a second.

He notices, of course, stilling against me, his fingers just barely lingering inside me. I catch his expression, but can't decipher it, but lean up to kiss it away regardless.

"It's okay," I whisper, and then, feeling like it's necessary to repeat it again; "I want to."

A faltering look crosses my face. "But just… really slowly."

He kisses me again; soft, tender. I'm suddenly reminded that, for the majority of the time I've known him we never kissed at all—and now it seems to happen every other second, as if we're both compelled by some unknown force, unwilling (or unable) to stop.

He lowers me again until I'm lying flat, feeling far more open and exposed than I ever have before. But it doesn't feel… invasive. Intimate, maybe, but not unwelcomed.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the feeling of him prodding against me, whimpering when he breeches me, sheathing himself fully inside me in one long, slow slide. I try to relax for it—but it's been a while. That's irrelevant, actually, I don't think I'll ever be quite prepared enough for this, ever. But I'm unused to the feeling of being stretched so widely after so long without it.

I wince when he moves slightly, feeling like he's about to break me in two.

"Harry," he says, and when I open my eyes I see him staring down at me with something that could even be considered concern.

"I'm okay," I shake my head, though my hand is clasped around his arm in what is possibly a death grip. "It's just…" I grimace, and feel my face flushing deeply. And then, so quiet it's almost inaudible above the sound of my breathing, "You're not exactly… small."

His eyes darken at that, and a smooth, dark laugh escapes him. I'm utterly amazed at the sound. I don't think I've ever heard him laugh—or seen him in a genuinely good mood, that wasn't induced by satisfaction from the pain of others.

"Take your time, then," he murmurs, bending down to brush his lips against mine.

I nod shakily, closing my eyes and trying to just… get used to the feeling of being so full. I can feel myself fluttering against him, straining and clenching reflexively and ineffectually, filled to the brim and feeling like it's all just too much. I've no idea how he's managing to stay so still as I adjust to him; he loves the idea of me being helplessly impaled on his cock—the sight of it, even more so. That he's exhibiting any sense of patience at all is… almost endearing.

I don't know how long we stay like that; me, trying to force myself to relax and remember how to breath, squirming around him in what is probably the most unintentionally torturous way possible, feeling so vulnerable and exposed, both legs thrown over his shoulders; his mouth hot and wet against my neck, burning marks there. It all feels so intimate in a way it never has before, even though we've used this position a thousand times, even though this is far from the most embarrassing thing he's ever done to me. It feels like so much more.

He's licking and biting at my ear when I finally wriggle around and don't feel like he's about to tear me apart. I'm not sure if he's really just that big, or I'm really just that small. Now that I'm thinking on it, it's likely a combination of both. Because I've always been small and fragile in comparison to the other boys my age—and I wasn't joking about his size. He's really not small. He's so far from it, actually, that I sometimes wish he was a little bit smaller. This wouldn't be such a logistical issue every single time if he was.

I clench around him, somewhat ineffectually because it's kind of hard to clamp down when there's not much room to do much of anything, but it is far worth it to hear his stifled groan against the shell of my ear as I roll my hips against him, taking him in even more.

"Oh," my eyes flutter open in surprise; he's impossibly deep inside me, but it actually feels… really good.

He pushes in further at that, almost involuntarily, and I strain against him, all the breath leaving me all at once.

My eyes squeeze shut again when he surges into me again, slow like liquid pleasure. "Tom," I arch my back into his next thrust, gasping. "Tom, oh please, oh—"

"Tell me what you want, Harry," he purrs darkly, dangerously, rolling his hips against me in perfect, shallow little thrusts.

I get the feeling I'm going to be hearing that far too much for my liking. As it is, I scrunch my brows in a futile attempt to concentrate on anything but the needy ache inside me. "I don't know," I pant, fervid and delirious, "But just—fuck—just do that again…"

An unbridled ache swells inside me with every slight, careful tilt of his hips. It's such a diminutive movement; snatched inches, the subtle shift of him inside me, dragging against a bundle of nerves that takes all the breath out of me on every stroke. It feels fucking amazing. I can suddenly see why everyone wants to have sex all the goddamn time.

He isn't even touching me and I already feel like I'm about to fall apart. And he's staring down at me, catching each and every flicker of expression that crosses over my unguarded face with a hungry, eager look. He presses into me again, so smooth and gently it feels like a caress—and then I see it. That familiar look in his eyes, searing and devouring me with an uncontrollable thirst…

Darkened with a blistering, undeniable satisfaction.

It's more than that, though. There is a pleased triumph which flickers in those fiery eyes, but also a… certain affection.

And when he's this close, this deep in me, it's impossible for him to hide anything, not even the naked tenderness that is buried so far in his eyes I don't even know if he realizes it himself. Defying all logic, and everything I thought I knew about him, I am… pleasing him, once again. He is once more satisfied and content. And then it something seems to click into place. The last couple months—the whole year, even—start to make sense.

"Tom," I breathe, and then, against all reason and every inch of my self-preservation, I find something soft cottoning in my throat, stealing my breath away, manifesting outwards as a small, almost insignificant tilt of my lips.

Small, but a smile all the same.

An exulted, intense look overcomes him—an expression of total enrapture.

I don't get it. It's as if he's never seen me—

"Tom," I whisper again, breath hitching, pushing up to press my lips lightly against the side of his mouth. I hadn't actually meant to do that—my aim is a little off, sue me, this position is not fun for balance—but something about the unintentional sweetness of it completely unravels him, and he makes a small noise against my mouth.

Against my own volition, my smile grows when I pull away. It is soft and endearing; he fixates upon it as if he's disregarding everything else in the world. There is a greedy, ravenous look of utter enchantment when he draws a hand to my lips, tracing the curve of them. And then it's gone, and he's abruptly leaning down to catch my mouth, as if to keep the smile as his own.

My eyes widen in surprise, and a couple things happen all at once.

The momentum pulls whatever small modicum of equilibrium I had; my legs fall from his shoulders and I clasp them tightly against his waist to keep my balance; we both end up falling onto the table in the most uncoordinated way possible, but I don't even care because the movement drives him deeper into me, abrupt and sudden, and then I'm shuddering apart at the feel of it, convulsing around him and coming harder than I can ever remember, to the point I actually think I black out for a bit. Over the white noise of my own pleasure I hear his own release as he groans into my neck: feel it, even, pulsating so deep in me, claiming me completely and irrevocably.

I blink up sleepily at the ceiling, besieged by a great unwillingness to move; I want to stay like this forever. Or at least until I fall asleep.

But as I'm lying there wrapped in his arms, looking dazedly over his shoulder and trying to catch my breath, the rest of the world comes back to me. There's a moment of bewilderment and incomprehension.

And then I find myself choking on a bubble of laughter.

Because above us is an endless wall crammed with hanging portraits of all the headmasters to have ever been at Hogwarts on every available inch of wallpaper—all of them are frozen, which means at some point he must have frozen them all. But all this just serves to remind me of where we are right now. I turn my head, straining to see what we're on and, yep, this is the headmaster's desk.

"What?" Tom mumbles into my neck, seeming just as unwilling to get up as I am.

I keep snickering quietly, unable to control it.

He raises his head at that. "What?"

I shake my head as he pulls out carefully, before dragging me upright into a sitting position. My legs drop from his waist but I stay in the circle of his arms, pressing my smile into his chest.

"Nothing," I giggle, "It's just that—" I press myself further into him, muffling my laughter.

"We just had sex on the desk of every headmaster to ever teach at Hogwarts," I point out to him, whispering conspiratorially.

I feel a dark, pleased smirk pressed into my hair. "They'll never have to know."

He waves a hand, and within seconds we're both clothed again. Ah—that would explain how they managed to find their way off me in the first place. But the return of the familiar fabric has me remembering just why, exactly, we were desecrating such a priceless historical artifact in the first place.

I look down, and whatever sense of warmth I had felt from earlier recedes into a frigid, hollow cold.

"The contract," I start, hesitantly, leaning against him, gaze fixated on the floor. "What are you…" I swallow. "Are you—are you going to sign it?"

There's a moment where he doesn't say anything in response.

Then he's lifting my chin, gently, almost, but still insistently. "Do you want me to?" He returns, unreadable.

I should. But it's with great resignation that I realize my fate was sealed long before this. "No," I answer, quiet but honest.

It doesn't feel like a surrender at all..

"Then I won't."

.

.

.

I tell Dumbledore that everything is fine and that the fate of the world has once more been saved. Or at least, the fate of the muggleborns. This doesn't seem to placate him at all, as he watches me with great concern and inquires further on what Voldemort and I discussed.

I manfully refrain from revealing to him that we didn't solve any of our issues with 'discussion'.

Instead I just reiterate the fact that everything is fixed and there's no point in getting worked up over it. I'm not even annoyed in the slightest with his misplaced concern or his constant barrage of questions—I have extracted my swift and unrepentant vengeance, and it feels fucking fantastic. He's going to sit at that desk and never know how much we defiled it, but I am going to relish in secret vindication every time I think about it.

Anyway, I am far less concerned with Dumbledore, the still-in-effect contract, the destroyed horcrux ring, and pretty much everything else that has to do with that whole debacle.

I am turning my full attention to another area of study.

"Harry," I hear a surprised voice startle behind me. "What are you doing here?"

I look up owlishly to the visage of a bewildered Hermione, looking as if she just saw a hippogriff walk on its hind legs. I'd be a little more annoyed at that, but let's face it, she's right. There's far better chances of hippogriffs learning how to do the tango than me voluntarily placing myself in the library.

"Researching," I answer, not smooth at all.

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Oh, are you?" Her tone is light and airy.

I want to bang my head against the table and die. "Yes," I reply, honestly.

But I would very much so prefer it if you never knew what it was that I was looking up.

It's a little hard to hide though, considering I've pulled out pretty much every book I could find on sex and carnal desires. Most of it is just a lot of potions and spells, but some if it could qualify as relevant to my current cause. It's inevitable; she nears, and her brows raise when she catches sight of the book titles stacked haphazardly around me.

She gives me a look of barely restrained bemusement. "Huh," she says, but then she sits down, cracks open her own book, and for all intent purposes seems to forget about me.

I blink at her, stunned, before I too return to my reading.

I wrinkle my nose at it; it appears to be a rather dark text on blood and sex rituals. Lovely. I knicked it out of the restricted section with a note I finagled (read: guilt tripped) Dumbledore into giving me, in the hopes of finding something more useful down in the bowels of Hogwart's most guarded books. As I keep reading I feel a very small, tiny drop of gratitude that the dark lord never deigned to try any of these out on me. He definitely pulled a lot of other terrible shit, but apparently that didn't even scratch the surface of the horrifying things people can do to each other.

On that subject, I close the book with great, resigned finality, realizing that my best bet is probably the resource in front of me.

"Hermione," I intone, gravely.

She looks up, slow and laconic in a way that means she was just waiting for me to broach the subject. "Yes?"

I sigh. "I need you're help."

.

.

.

In the space of a few days Hermione has unearthed a small little book about sexuality that has no magical properties at all. It's a muggle book, actually, but that doesn't matter. Magic or no, we're all the same species; I'm assuming things like this are overreaching themes for our whole race.

I'm not sure why I'm so intent on finding out why Voldemort… does the things he does. I'd always assumed he was just a horrible and unfeeling monster; this sort of cruel, one-dimensional character who acted without rhyme or reason. And that he plays his little games to derive satisfaction out of the pain of others; that he feels nothing but either rage or sick enjoyment. It certainly seems like it.

At first glance, anyway.

The book proves to be a phenomenal resource, which explains a lot about his actions, but definitely doesn't excuse any of them.

I'm not sure what it is though about dominating others—and me, in particular—that he fixates so wholly upon, or even why he does it in the first place. But his obsession with it seems to be the root of everything he's ever done; everything he's ever done to me.

He wanted complete control and ownership over me, which manifested as a deep-seated desire to see me submit to him. That didn't take long, honestly. By the beginning of fifth year I had already figured out its far better to just do what he wants. But then it seemed to move from a fixation with my submission to craving my reactions to it. Crying, begging, screaming, repeating whatever he told me to say—they were all just manifestations of his dominance over me. But even that too soon lost it's ability to satiate his need.

But there was nothing else he could do; I had already completely submitted to him. I obeyed his every command without complaint or fanfare. I guess that's when he started getting frustrated. I definitely remember that; his mercurial and unexplainable moods, his volatile anger that would emerge even when I did everything he told me to. Because it wasn't enough anymore.

Who knows—maybe this is when he got so frustrated he tried to get me pregnant. I don't actually think it had anything to do with a baby as much as it did the idea of me being knocked up. Another claim of ownership, I guess.

Well anyway, that worked about as well as the rest of his attempts, which is to say not at all.

I frown, pensively.

I wonder what changed all that. His motivations up until this point are fairly easy to unravel, but I can't find any explanation for the last few months.

I don't know why I'm thinking on all of this so deeply right at this moment, when I'm curled up in his lap, having breakfast.

Which is a first; I don't normally stick around for breakfast.

I don't normally let him feed me strawberries, either.

At first when he pulled me into his lap it seemed rather… sweet. Endearing. Romantic, even. Which is absurd and mildly horrifying, so I dug deeper to find the real reason for it all. Which is why I'm thinking all these really intensive thoughts about sexuality and fetishes so early in the morning.

It definitely has less to do with the romance and a lot more to do with the whole domineering, possessive personality.

But that isn't to say there isn't something strangely… affectionate about all of it.

I lean against his chest, feeling slow and sleepy, head pillowed on his shoulder. One arm is wrapped tightly around me, and the other holds a fork with a slice of banana on it, moving up to him instead of me. I don't know what possesses me to lean up really quick and steal it from him, but I intercept it before it can make it to his mouth, claiming it for my own. I feel a mischievous smile light on my face when I see his expression. He doesn't punish me for this grievance; against all reason an amused look crosses his face and he stabs another piece, moving it towards me. I open my mouth to bite it, feeling really strange and—weird. I feel like I've lost my mind at some point during this day.

This whole day makes no sense, but I find myself playing along with it anyway, categorizing everything he does and attempting to make sense of it. This goes about as well as you could imagine.

First of all; no sexual exploits to speak of. Considering these past few months I guess it isn't all that strange—but in the grand scheme of things it kind of is.

For all intent purposes, I'm sitting here doing my homework. Actually the dark lord is doing my homework, and I'm sitting here petting Nagini.

"How do you not know the five basic laws of transmutation?" He snorts, looking genuinely confused. "What are they teaching you in that school?"

I shrug somewhat defensively, holding a hand aloft for Nagini to wind around my arm. "We probably went over it at some point," I reply feebly, still a little hesitant to reply to him at all. The whole 'conversing' thing is really hard to come to terms with. "I probably just wasn't paying attention."

His expression turns unreadable. "Yes," he turns away. "I suppose you would have much to distract you."

I blink at that, wondering how the mood turned so bleak in a matter of seconds. Nagini leaves my hand in favor of curling up in my lap. What could he—oh. Oh. But I hadn't meant it to be accusatory at all; I wasn't blaming him for it or anything. Even though it kind of is his fault.

I feel a change in subject is in order, but have no idea what to change it to. I'm not all that socially adept to begin with, but whatever grasp I have on polite conversation is not nearly enough to help me now. The only thing I know how to do with him is… sex. Though I don't know how useful that's going to be right now.

I shift uneasily, drowning in silence. "I'm sleepy," I say, if only to break the quiet.

He gives me an odd look, quill pausing. "You can retire whenever you like, Harry. I'm not keeping you here."

I nod, fidgeting still.

"Right," I bite my lip, rubbing Nagini almost absently. "But…"

When I fail to finish, he looks up again. I wish he hadn't, though. Those quiet crimson eyes are doing funny things to something that feels suspiciously like my heart.

"Will you come with me?"

I think he is honestly surprised.

He rises all the same though, pulling me up as well. Nagini slithers off of me as he apparates us both to the bedroom. It's only the late afternoon but already it looks as if it could be the dead of night, the world dark outside of the windows.

I crawl into the bed, suddenly struck with a legitimate sleepiness. I was lying earlier, but now I actually kind of do want to sleep. I feel the bed dip behind me, turning around to see Voldemort watching me intensely. I turn back around, lying on my side but dragging one of his hands with me, pulling him against me. He seems caught off guard by the movement, stilling behind me for a moment; then he is grasping me tighter, until there's no space left between us.

I'm sieged with a sudden awkwardness, but I lose it soon enough, drifting off in the warm circle of his arms.


End file.
